A Home of Sorts
by NongPradu
Summary: Fall of 1996. Sam and Dean are at Harbatkan High School while John goes off on an important hunting mission. Life at first seems normal until the boys notice that people in this town are disappearing. Are they ready to hunt without their dad?
1. Chapter 1

The long road stretched ahead for miles of unbroken wilderness as the black '67 Impala rumbled down the highway, the night sky lighting their way with an unobstructed, full moon. The rolling hills and sweeping grasslands beyond the windows were a black blur as they whizzed past. It had been hours since they'd stopped. John Winchester kept his eyes on the road, focusing on the job ahead, while his eldest son watched him from the passenger's seat. He could feel Dean's eyes on him.

"I said no," John said sternly but quietly, not wanting to wake Sam, who was sound asleep in the backseat. "And that's the end of this discussion."

Dean opened his mouth to speak, paused, and then shut it again. His frustration was apparent from the heavy, loud breathing, the constant turning of the head to look in John's direction, the flaring of his nostrils and the set of his jaw. John knew his son well enough to know that he wouldn't talk back – but the looks that he was getting were starting to set him on edge. He needed to be firm on this.

"Dean, stop your sulking and do as you're told," he warned.

"I didn't say anything!" Dean protested.

"And if you wake your brother, so help me, I will tear you a new one."

That had done it. Dean folded his arms across his chest and shifted in his seat, turning to face the window and staring out it solemnly. John sometimes forgot that he was still a kid, and smiled in spite of himself at the evidence of it now.

"I need you here," John explained patiently, firmly. "With Sam. Looking after him. And I can't do my job if I'm worrying about you two."

"But I just think that you're gonna need my help," Dean said, being careful to keep his voice very low. "If something big's going down, I wanna be part of it."

"This job is bigger than anything you've ever faced Dean," John reminded him. He had told him this before already, but it bore repeating. "And I might not be back for a while. You know I can't bring you and Sammy along for that – especially not Sammy."

"Couldn't we leave him with –"

"No," John insisted. "Sammy is your responsibility. Now you're going to get him ready for school, see that he gets his homework done, and you're going to be responsible for him _because I said so_."

Dean was silent. He stared ahead and huffed in frustration.

"Do we have an understanding, Dean?" John asked.

"Yes sir," Dean said.

It was a silent drive as the Impala rumbled onwards.

It was a hard line, and John knew that sometimes he was a little too hard on Dean. But God, he worried about the kid. Headstrong and cocky, and selfless to the point of foolish sometimes, if Dean didn't have structure at home he'd be lost. It was probably the only thing he could do for Dean that felt like being a real dad. Keep him in line, make sure he follows _someone's_ rules. And if it meant keeping him safe, it was best that the rules Dean followed – even if they were the only rules Dean followed – were John's.

The early morning light was just creeping up on the horizon when they pulled into the familiar dirt road. Dean sat up in his seat, eager to get out of this car at last so he could take a leak and maybe even catch some sleep, his green eyes taking in the sight of the shadowy metal mounds – a headlight here, the rusted hood of a trunk there – of Bobby Singer's junkyard as they approached the house. Not much had changed since the last time they had been here, though Dean noticed that a few more hubcaps had been secured to the side of the house. And Bobby's old hound dog appeared to have been replaced by a chubby German Shepherd.

"Take your brother inside," John whispered as the car came to a stop. "I'll get your things from the trunk."

Dean slid out of the car, being careful to close the door as gingerly as possible so as not to wake Sam, and opened the door to the back seat. Crawling over the supine body of his kid brother, he placed his hands under Sam's shoulders and hefted him out of the backseat, glad that he was such a heavy sleeper in the metaphorical sense only. After Sam's latest growth spurt, he weighed a lot more, and Dean had to settle for slumping Sam's limp body over his shoulder, staggering under the weight as he made his way to the front door.

He knocked, but Bobby was already there waiting and opened the door with a warm smile.

"Hey kid," he whispered jovially. "Bring him on inside."

There was a small spare bedroom off of the kitchen, which would serve as a bedroom for Sam for the time-being, where Dean took Sam, laying his brother out on the bed and laughing to himself at how like a rock he could be when he was sleeping. Then he shut the door quietly behind him, joining Bobby in the kitchen.

"It's good to see you, Dean," Bobby said, pulling him into a tight hug. "Gosh, you must have been Sam's age the last time I saw you. Lookin' all grown up now."

A loud thunk on the floor as John Winchester plunked Sam and Dean's bags down announced that the car had been officially unpacked. Bobby clasped hands with John, each man giving the other a sturdy pat on the back.

"I can't thank you enough for letting the boys stay here," John said. "I promise they won't be any trouble."

"These two?" Bobby scoffed. "They'll have the house burnt down in a week."

"Now the school's not too far from here," John explained. "About twenty minutes or so. I'm leaving you the Impala so you and Sam can get to school and back."

Dean's eyes lit up.

"Make sure Sammy gets his homework done, and keep him out of trouble, ok?"

Dean nodded.

"I'm counting on you Dean," John said solemnly. "Don't get in any fights. And watch that mouth of yours." He raised an admonitory finger when Dean made a move to protest. "Don't talk back to your teachers or go picking any fights on purpose. And no girl trouble!"

Dean grinned impishly.

It was hard for John to say goodbye like this. They had always been together, hunting as a family, and he knew that the separation would be hard, especially on Dean. This was likely to be the longest they would be apart, and John knew that Dean would worry about him. Dean had always worried about him. _Gosh he's a good looking kid_, John thought. _Tall, lean, lithe, and fair. A man now, to all intents and purposes, though still a kid_.

"Bobby has already got you both registered," John went on, sticking to business. "So you'll be starting today."

"Today?" Dean exclaimed. "You've gotta be kidding me."

"You've already missed enough school this year, Dean," John said. "Sam too. I want you both as caught up as possible. That means I expect you to at least pass."

"At least pass," Dean muttered to himself. "I'll try not to aim too high, then."

"What was that?" John asked sharply.

"Nothing sir."

"Look Dean, the last thing I need is social services on my ass," John explained. "I know that school is not your thing, and that you'd rather be hunting with me. But let's make it look normal, ok son? Let's keep Sam on track so that we can keep on staying together as a family."

"Sure, Dad." It broke John's heart to see the sad smile on Dean's face.

John heaved a sigh. It was time to put on the brave face.

"All right," he said. "I'm taking off then. Say goodbye to Sammy for me."

"You should say goodbye to him yourself," Dean suggested. "Come on Dad, he's gonna hit the roof when he learns you took off on this job without saying goodbye."

"Nah," John replied, waving it off in spite of the heaviness in his heart. "Let him sleep. He'll have a long day ahead – new school and everything. I don't want to wake him." _I don't want to fight with him_.

John climbed into a shiny new black truck that, up until this point, Dean hadn't noticed was in the driveway, and closed the front door behind him. Showing its age, it swung silently closed without the slightest creak of protest.

"By the way," John said, tossing a set of keys to Dean through the open driver's side window. "The Impala's yours. Take good care of her."

***

"Rise and shine, Sammy!" Dean called, yanking the covers off of Sam's face so quickly that Sam gasped with a start, his heart pounding in his chest.

"You gave me a heart attack you jerk!" Sam growled, pulling the covers back up over himself and curling into a ball.

"I said 'up' bitch," Dean said. He pulled the covers off of Sam and stared down at him menacingly. "Get your ass ready for school or you're going to get an attack from the Wedgy Patrol."

"School?" Sam asked. He raised his head from his pillow and narrowed his eyes, visibly confused. It was then that he realized where he was. "Are we at Bobby's already? When did we get here?"

"Early this morning," Dean replied shortly. "Now _get up_."

He tugged Sam by the arm and dragged him out of bed.

"Dad wants us to go to school so we're going to school." He walked Sam to the kitchen table, his hands held firmly on his shoulders, and sat him down at one of the kitchen chairs. "Eat something. Get dressed. And then get in the car."

"Can I brush my teeth?" Sam snapped.

"Only if you haul ass!" Dean called over his shoulder as he left the room, his feet thumping loudly on the stairs as he climbed up to the guest room that was his for the time being.

Sam poured himself a bowl of cereal and ate as quickly as he could. His heart raced with excitement. School. He was going to get to go to school again. That must mean that they would be staying here for a little while. Sam wondered how long.

"Where's Dad?" he asked when Dean had returned.

"Job," was Dean's terse reply.

"How long will he be gone?" Sam pressed.

"I don't know." Dean leaned against the kitchen counter and watched Sam eating. "A few weeks at least. Probably longer."

"How come he didn't wake me?" Sam asked, his feelings hurt.

"Cos you have school in the morning," Dean snapped. "And he knows you're too delicate to go without sleep."

"Shut up," Sam muttered.

It was an exciting day for Sam Winchester. The butterflies in his stomach as he shut himself in the car several minutes later couldn't compare with the feeling of exhilaration and satisfaction at knowing that he would be going to a real school, with other kids his age, to do real work and learn real things. To be around normal people who didn't talk about hunting or ghosts or demons. There would be girls here – not that he would ever be brave enough to talk to them. And there would be sports teams and chess clubs and school plays and… And he was getting ahead of himself.

Part of him was almost glad that their dad was gone. It meant that he could be normal for a while. He and Dean could be like normal kids, doing normal kid things. And it was even better that they were staying at Bobby's because it meant that they would have some kind of stability. But Bobby being a hunter meant that they would also have a fair amount of privacy, as he would most likely be away for days at a time on hunting gigs.

"Do you think Bobby will join Dad on this hunt?" Sam asked, staring intently out the window to watch the streets as they passed, making a point of noting all the landmarks on the route to school.

"Most likely," Dean replied, his eyes looking straight ahead without actually seeming to pay attention to the traffic. He was gripping the steering wheel a little more tightly than usual.

"You ok?" Sam asked.

"Just be quiet, Sam."

The principal's office was busier than they had expected. A secretary at the reception desk was deep in conversation with someone about a busted water mane in the school basement, and two teachers down the hall, a man and a woman, appeared to be arguing about parking spaces. Sam and Dean waited in the reception area while students, teachers, and delivery men, custodians, and various other characters popped in and out, making a point of sizing up the two brothers as they sat and waited.

"Dean and Samuel Winchester?" the secretary said at last. "Principal Boomer will see you now."

Dean looked at Sam with suppressed laughter at the name 'Boomer' as they followed the secretary to the principal's office. When they got there they found a rather tall man sitting behind a desk. He was a thick sort of fellow, with wide shoulders and a heavy frame, giving him the appearance of a football player lately gone to seed. He was balding, a shiny peach scalp gleaming through dark greying hair. His face was stern and square, and he had a thick dark handlebar moustache.

"Have a seat," he said peremptorily.

The boys silently complied.

"Welcome to Harbatkan High," he said. "I am Principal Boomer."

Dean and Sam smiled and nodded politely, each muttering a half-hearted 'hi.'

"I have taken the liberty of going through each of your permanent records," he said. "Samuel –" turning to look at Sam. "This is your first time at a real High School, I see? You have recently been homeschooled?"

Sam nodded.

"And before that you were two months at Midview Middle School?"

Sam nodded again.

"Well then, this should be a big change for you," Principal Boomer went on. "Grade nine is a tough year. There are a lot of challenges. A great deal will be asked of you. But I see that you have an excellent academic record. Straight A student." He raised an appreciative eyebrow. "Here at Harbatkin we have a strong work ethic. We demand academic excellence and personal decorum."

Dean rolled his eyes.

"I have also taken a sobering look at your record," he said pointedly to Dean. "Constant absanteeism. Fights. Two suspensions. C student. No doubt there's a juvenile criminal record to go with your long list of accomplishments."

"Those are sealed," Dean said with a grin.

"Yes, well… Let me be frank."

"Sure thing, Frank," Dean said baldly. Sam gave him an inconspicuous kick in the leg.

Principal Boomer leaned forward across his desk, looking Dean in the eye.

"I am looking for a reason to throw you out of this school," he warned. "Give me a reason, and you will be expelled before you can call out for your parole officer."

Dean did not reply, but thought to himself that this was definitely not a good start. He wondered how much of an ass kicking he would get if he were actually expelled. The phrase 'beaten to a new shade of purple' came to mind.

"Behave yourself," Boomer went on, "stay out of trouble, keep your nose clean… It's your senior year – graduate. You do all that, and we won't have a problem here." He smiled widely, revealing a mouth full of crooked teeth. "We're not going to have a problem here, are we Dean?"

"No sir," Dean promised, adopting his most sober voice. "We are not going to have a problem. Consider this nose squeaky clean, shined, and polished."

"Now, since it's already October," the principal explained, "you'll both have a bit of catching up to do. I trust you will both apply yourselves to the best of your ability?"

They nodded that they would.

"All right then," the principal said. "Now off to class."

888

Sam gave a tentative knock on the door to room 225. When a voice called "come in" he opened it a crack, peeking his head in.

"Hello?" a middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair and overly large glasses said. "Can I help you?"

"Um, I'm Sam," Sam said weakly. "I'm supposed to uh… I'm looking for Mrs. Harper?"

"Oh, you're Sam Winchester," she said warmly. "Of course. Come on in. I'm Mrs. Harper."

Sam shuffled awkwardly inside and sat himself in the nearest empty desk, conscious of the eyes that followed his every move as he made his way down the aisle. He could see them taking in the sight of his tattered jeans, his overlarge plaid shirt, his old scuffed boots, and most obviously, his excessive height. Even at age thirteen, Sam Winchester was easily a full head taller than most of the other kids in his class.

"Sam and his brother have just moved here from Kansas," Mrs. Harper announced to the class. "Can we all say 'hi' to Sam – make him feel welcome?"

"Hi, Sam," the class droned.

Sam was only slightly mortified at the odd introduction. He forced a smile and gave a half-hearted wave, wishing everyone would stop looking at him. It was always like this on the first day at a new school, being the new kid. Everyone sizing you up, figuring out how much you were worth, what kind of house you lived in, what kinds of things you did for fun, how cool you were. His only hope of making any real friends was to be as secretive about his real life as possible. He wondered how horrified they would be to see the state of Bobby Singer's house.

"Here's your textbook," Mrs. Harper said, laying a heavy red book with the words MATH NINE on the front in large letters. "We've just started the section on trinomials."

Sam sighed with relief.

"Thanks," he said, feeling his worries beginning to melt away already. "I'm pretty sure I can follow along with the class." He had had a tutor about a month ago who had taught him all about trinomials, but she had quit after starting up some kind of fling with Dean.

He groaned inwardly at the thought of the trouble Dean was going to get him into.

888

It was peaceful where he was. The music was blaring, the windows were rolled down, and the wind was blowing through the hair of an extremely hot chick in the passenger seat of the Impala. Dean smiled dreamily as he coasted along the open highway, his hands loosely gripping the steering wheel, his foot pushing the petal to the metal. This was freedom.

"Maybe Mr. Winchester can help us out," he heard a voice saying. Definitely not the voice of the hot chick.

An eruption of laughter.

He woke with a start, his head snapping up. He was not in the Impala. This was not freedom. He was in class.

The classroom erupted in a second bout of laughter at his sudden return to consciousness. He shifted in his seat, rousing himself from the dream – _damn he was_ _tired_ – and cast a hesitant glance at the teacher standing over him. Miss Miller? Muller? The name started with an 'M.'

She was young for a teacher. Dean guessed late 20s, early 30s at the oldest. She was also quite pretty, with a slender though shapely frame that was currently tucked away into a very flattering pencil skirt and button-up blouse. She eyed Dean quizzically, as if deciding if he was a sad case or a head-case.

"Sorry," he muttered. He had fallen asleep with his copy of "Romeo and Juliet" still open in his hand.

"I think Mr. Shakespeare would be offended," she said lightly. "Does anyone else think this play is putting them to sleep?"

A number of hands were raised. Dean's tension eased somewhat.

"All right then." She sat on the edge of her desk and crossed her legs – long legs, Dean noticed, trying not to look like he noticed. "Why don't we just get down to basics, then? What do you guys think about the characters?"

No one replied. Dean thought of the teacher from Peanuts, how she would drone on in a non-language while Charlie Brown and Peppermint Patty listened in a comatose kind of stupor.

"What do you guys think of Romeo?" she pressed. "Is he a nice guy? Is he the romantic lover that history has painted him as?"

"Sure," a jocky-looking guy at the back of the class said. He was wearing a letterman jacket, Dean noticed. _So helpful of them to advertise_. "Cos, like, he says things like wherefore and thou."

Several of his friends laughed.

"Does he love Juliet?" teacher asked.

"Yeah," the jock said.

"All right, Todd. Why? What makes him romantic?"

Dean tried not to smirk at the name Todd. It seemed so 80s heartthrob. Todd. Chad.

"Well he marries Juliet," Todd supplied. "And he kills himself when he thinks she's dead."

"Uh-huh," the teacher said, pondering it. "So what do you make of Rosaline, then?"

Blank faces.

"In the beginning of the play Romeo is all heartsick over Rosaline," she reminded them. "Let's take a look at Act 1, scene 1."

Dean had hoped she wouldn't – but of course she did – make them each read a line from the latter portion of Act 1, scene 1. When they had finished she paused and waited for someone to react.

"So?" she asked. "What do we make of that?"

"Well she turned him down," a girl to Dean's left replied. "He was heartbroken because she turned him down. I don't think that makes him any less romantic."

"Yeah," Todd said. "If anything, that makes him more romantic. It's like he's so romantic that he falls in love easily." He gave a meaningful leer to a very pretty girl at the front of the class.

Dean shook his head in disbelief.

"You disagree?" the teacher asked him. "You have a different interpretation."

"Not really," Dean lied.

"Tell us," Miss M prodded. "What do you think of Romeo as a romantic hero? Was he in love with Juliet? Was he in love with Rosaline?"

Dean shook his head.

"No?" the teacher pressed.

"Nope."

"Then what is it? What motivates him?" She was searching his face, daring him to answer – and she knew that he did have an answer.

Dean shifted in his seat again, feeling all eyes on him, waiting to see if he was going to say something idiotic or insightful. The seconds ticked by, a chair leg squeaked against the floor as someone moved in his or her seat, and still Dean didn't answer.

"He doesn't have a clue," Todd muttered smugly. That decided it.

"Romeo just wants to get laid," Dean said.

The class erupted in uproarious laughter. The teacher's cheeks flushed a bit, and at first she looked upset, unsure if Dean was being serious or was just being shocking to get a laugh out of the class. But she made a visible effort to recover herself.

"How so," she asked archly.

Dean shrugged.

"Come on," she urged.

"Yeah, come on," Todd goaded. "You're real smart, huh? Some kind of Shakespeare scholar."

"Eat me," Dean snapped.

"That's enough!" the teacher announced loudly. "Settle down." She turned her attention back to Dean.

"Why do you think Romeo.." she coughed uncomfortably. "Why do you think he's only interested in sex?"

"Because he's a scholar," Todd taunted.

"No," Dean replied sharply, turning his head to face the cocky jock in the back row. "Because I know what the word _chaste_ means you stupid dick."

They were laughing at Todd's expense now.

"Settle down!" the teacher shouted, sharply this time. She walked down the aisle and paused at Dean's desk. "Dean, can I see you after class?"

He sighed loudly and slumped lower into his seat. Miss M resumed her stroll down the aisle.

"Chastity," she said to the room at large. "Dean, what were you going to say about chastity?"

It was like a slow, cruel exercise in torture. Dean fantasized that a vengeful spirit had flown through the window to tear his lungs out of his chest and smiled wistfully. He would prefer it right now to discussing "Romeo and Juliet."

"Come on, Dean, be a good sport," the teacher said.

"God," Dean growled. "Fine." He scanned the last page of the act until he found the passages that he was looking for. "Here. Romeo says," Dean read off of the page. "_O, she is rich in beauty, only poor, That when she dies with beauty dies her store_. And then Benvolio asks if Rosaline has sworn to remain chaste. And Romeo says, _She hath and in that sparing makes huge waste_."

"Guy's a skin dog."

Miss M eyed Dean appraisingly, eventually nodding her head in approval. He had passed some kind of test with her, which was a big mistake in his opinion. Now he would have to pay attention and actually do the work if he didn't want to see that look of disappointment he so often got from teachers who actually gave a crap about him. He made a mental note to keep his yap shut the next time a teacher asked him a question, whether he knew the answer or not.

"Impressive," she conceded, giving him a light pat on the shoulder as she walked past his desk. "Does anyone want to counter that?"

A lame and half-hearted debate broke out among a few of the more literary-minded students in the class, but Dean remained decidedly silent. He emphatically did not want to participate in the class discussion any more than he already had. And by the murderous looks he was getting from Todd, who did not appreciate being upstaged by some shabby-looking new kid, speaking up and revealing that he actually had a brain had been a bigger mistake than he thought.

Could he help that he had several years' experience reading through and poring over the meaning of ancient texts – most of them involving witchcraft and spiritual lore – and thus had a better understanding of archaic English than most kids his age? Either way, it wasn't like he could explain it to _them_.

888

It was the best day ever. Sam gazed fondly at the face of the prettiest girl he had ever seen in the world as she prattled on about something or other. Andrea Calder. She had offered, he thought with a skipping beat of his heart, to get him up to speed on what he had missed so far this year, and was now walking next to him amid the throng of teens making a mad rush for the door in the post-bell fervour to haul ass home for the day. A neat-looking pink backpack slung tidily over her shoulder, her blonde hair pulled back at the temples by two dragonfly clips, her lips smelling of vanilla Lipsmackers, she held the sun in her hand. And Sam found that he hadn't heard a word that she said.

"So I can meet you after school tomorrow?" she finished.

"Yeah," Sam replied, hoping he could fake knowing the reason they would be meeting up after school tomorrow. Probably to study.

"And I'll bring all my notes and stuff," she assured him. "And then maybe we can stop on the way home and uh… get a soda?"

Sam smiled dreamily.

"Sam?"

"Yeah," he said, realizing that he hadn't actually answered, his cheeks flushing with mortification. "That sounds great. We can… go for a soda. And study… And you smell nice." _Had he actually just said that?_

She blushed, smiling shyly, but the compliment was well taken. Sam sighed in relief.

"So I'll see you tomorrow?" she said, stopping before the nearest school bus and preparing to step aboard.

"Yeah," Sam said. "Tomorrow." He tripped on his own foot.

When he had finally made his way to the student parking lot, he could see that Dean was already there waiting for him, leaning against the Impala with his arms crossed and wearing a serious scowl. _Dean's pissed_. Sam quickened his pace, not wanting to give Dean any reason to growl at him – it might ruin the perfect moment that he had just shared with the perfect girl.

"God, Sammy," Dean barked. "I've been waiting here forever."

So much for that.

"How can you have been waiting forever?" Sam asked. "The bell only rang five minutes ago."

"Yeah, try ten."

Sam looked at his watch. It had been ten minutes.

"Sorry," Sam said lamely. "I kind of got caught up in something."

"Uh-huh," Dean said, opening the front door and sliding into the front seat. Sam followed suit.

"And that something wouldn't be cute and blonde and waving at you through the window of that bus over there, would she?" he asked archly.

Sam zipped toward the window to look outside, bumping his forehead against the window and realizing too late that the student parking lot was way too far away from the bus loading zone for Dean to have possibly seen Andrea waving at him.

Dean laughed.

"You're such a jerk!" Sam shouted, sulking.

Dean laughed even harder.

"Suck it up, bitch," he said, his mood visibly improved by Sam's misery.

888

It was a good thing that Dean was used to sleeping in strange beds, because the mattress in the spare bedroom at Bobby's house sucked. Dean had tossed and turned for a full ten minutes, trying to find a position he could lie in that didn't feel like a sadistic version of acupuncture, before finally crashing into a comatose state. He hadn't slept since they had left the motel two days ago, and fatigue and exhaustion took him like a heavy sack of potatoes to Never Neverland.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end when Dean realized that he was not alone. He didn't know how long he had been asleep, but something in him – his instincts – had alerted him to the strange presence in his room. He opened his eyes, suddenly wide awake, and lay quite still. He listened for a sound of movement but heard nothing. Carefully, quietly, he rolled to his side, his hand gripping the blankets and pulling them off. He smelled flowers.

"Dean," a voice whispered in his ear, so close he jumped, looking up to see a heart-stopping sight.

A woman was hovering over his bed, long red hair flowing about her face as one floating in water. Her skin was pale, white, flawless, her lips red and full. She tilted her head to the side and eyed Dean with an appraising look, tentative, searching, tempting. Striking green eyes – eyes greener than emeralds – bore into his. She was completely naked.

"I want you," she said, laying a warm hand on his face, stroking his jaw with a delicate finger. The touch sent shivers of delightful sensation coursing through him.

"I want you," she said again, lowering her face close to his, her lips brushing against his. They tasted like strawberries.

Her body was close to his now, so close he could feel the warmth radiating from her skin through the thin cotton of his T-shirt and boxers. She ran the tips of her fingers along his chest, igniting tingling fires along its trail. Dean swallowed hard, trying to make his mind work, but the hot floating chick was not making it easy. Heat coursed through his body, pounding a steady, increasingly urgent beat. _Give in_, a voice in his head said. _Give in_.

"Wait."

He woke with a start, finding himself lying sprawled on his stomach, one arm tucked under the pillow under his head. A dark patch of wet on his pillow let him know that he'd been drooling. The covers, as he had left them, were still tucked up around his torso. It had been a dream.


	2. Chapter 2

"Wake up, Dean!" Sam shouted. He huffed loudly, grabbing his older brother by the shoulder and giving him a hearty shake. "Get up!"

Dean groaned and turned over onto his other side, his face tucked away from Sammy and his pestering.

"It's almost 7:30, Dean!" Sam griped, grabbing Dean again and attempting to move him.

"Go away," Dean moaned, burrowing his face into the pillow.

"Are you sick?" Sam demanded.

"I'm sleeping," Dean muttered.

"It's 7:30!" Sam shouted again.

This was his third attempt at waking Dean up and he was officially pushed beyond his limit. He stormed out of the room, kicking the banister as he thundered down the stairs. His overlarge feet stomped into the kitchen, pacing back and forth for a few moments in adolescent rage.

"You need help?" Bobby asked kindly, a smirk forming at the corners of his mouth as he sat at the kitchen table nursing his morning coffee.

But Sammy had an idea.

"Do you have a bucket?" he asked.

And then he was climbing the stairs again, being careful with the weighted burden in his right hand, marching down the hall, rounding the corner into Dean's bedroom.

_SPLASH!_

Dean gasped and leapt up as a cascade of freezing cold water rained down upon him. He sat in stunned silence for a moment, his eyes wide with shock, his heart pounding, his chest heaving. Then he turned with a murderous glare toward Sam in the doorway, but Sam had already made a mad dash down the hall.

"I'm gonna kill you, you little freak!" Dean bellowed, tearing the sopping sheets away from his body and leaping from the bed like a cat chasing a bird in flight.

He crashed through the hallway, tore down the stairs, and flew into the kitchen where he found Sam skittering behind Bobby's chair, using him as a human shield.

"You're up!" Bobby remarked sarcastically, taking a sip from his cup.

"Come here, Sammy," Dean said, forcing calm.

Sam shook his head.

"I just wanna tell you something," Dean coaxed, suppressing the rage.

"Touch me and I'll tell everyone at school you've got VD!" Sam warned.

Dean paused only for a moment to admire the inventiveness (and genius) of his brother's threat before advancing a few paces, his hands extended menacingly.

"You can't talk if you're choking on your teeth," he said darkly.

"You two wanna take this somewhere else?" Bobby said pointedly. "Cos if you're gonna rassle I suggest you do it outside."

Remembering Bobby, Dean finally relaxed. He didn't think their dad would be happy with them causing a raucous in Bobby's house, especially the first-thing-in-the-morning fighting that could cause the vein in John's forehead to throb.

"We're supposed to be leaving in five minutes," Sam said. He was already showered and dressed, his shaggy mop of brown hair still slightly damp.

Dean looked at the clock on Bobby's ancient and corroded microwave. 7:35.

"Jesus Sammy, why didn't you wake me?" he asked.

"I did!" Sammy bellowed, his cheeks reddening. "You were like a freaking coma patient in there!"

"All right, Samantha," Dean teased, using that calm and condescending older brother tone. "Untwist your panties. I'll get in the shower now."

"But we're going to be late!" Sam yelled.

"So?"

"So, it's our second day at a new school. If we're late it'll look bad."

That was a joke, Dean thought.

"So?"

"So I don't want my teachers thinking that I'm a slacker!" Sam said.

"Aw, that's sweet," Dean mocked. "That Principal's good opinion means a lot to you, huh? You should send him some chocolates and write him a ballad."

"I know _you_ don't care what anyone thinks," Sam accused. "But I do. I don't want them thinking I'm like you!"

He wished he hadn't said it the second the words had left his lips, but there was no taking it back. And in his anger and insecurity, he couldn't bring himself to apologize for it, though the momentary flicker of hurt in Dean's eyes – just a flash of how much that last insult had stung him – made Sam wince inwardly. But he could always count on Dean to hide his feelings behind a cocky smile, and Dean did not disappoint him now.

"Well if you were like me, you might actually get a date," he said smugly.

Sam was feeling better about the insult already.

"Get your things," Bobby said to Sam, sliding his cup across the table and getting to his feet. "I'll drop you off at school today."

"Are you sure?" Sam asked.

"Yeah. Meet me out front in a minute."

Sam didn't need to be told twice. He scampered off to the back room to retrieve his bookbag and was out the door before Bobby had time to wash his coffee cup.

"You ok?" he asked Dean when Sam had left the house.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Bobby shook his head.

"No reason," he said, eying Dean suspiciously. "Just checkin'."

888

Coffee made things better. Dean savoured the rich, bitter taste, feeling the rush of caffeine through his veins, invigorating him with energy he badly needed. His sleep had been broken, restless, and uncomfortable, and the abrupt and startling manner of his waking this morning had done nothing to settle the uneasy feeling in his gut.

_Dad should have called_, he thought. He should have checked in by now to see how their first day at school had gone. But then, maybe he was going to wait until this evening – give them a chance to get settled in. That was probably it. He would call. He was just busy on the road. He would call.

One hand on the steering wheel, one hand holding the styrofoam coffee cup, Dean pulled into the student parking lot, sliding the gear stick into park and turning off the ignition. _You can be Joe normal_, he told himself. _Pretend that any of this crap matters. Pretend that there aren't people that need saving and monsters that need killing. Pretend that this is who you are_.

He got out. A group of greasers were hanging around the side of the school smoking, their long hair and biker jackets properly identifying them as part of that social group, and when they saw Dean leaving the Impala, one of them, a hairy and tattooed young man who had more facial hair than was normally possible for high school aged kids, gave Dean a cursive nod. _Nice car_, his look said. Dean nodded back.

Everyone else was already in class. The halls were empty. Dean's combat boots seemed to echo on the tiled floor with each step as he marched toward his locker. Then he realized that he didn't even know what class he was supposed to be in. He tucked his notebook under his arm, biting onto the cup to hold it in his mouth while he fumbled with the lock. His schedule and books were inside.

"Let me help you with that," a voice said pleasantly, sweeping past Dean from behind and reaching out to take the coffee cup from his mouth. "This can go in the trash."

Principal Boomer plucked the cup away and then waited, straight backed and upright, waiting for Dean to react. His expression was hard to read – something between pleasure and challenge.

"I was still –" Dean began, but was interrupted.

"We don't allow our students to bring coffee to school, Mr. Winchester."

"Why?" Dean asked, perplexed.

"School policy," he said, not bothering to shrug. His suit made his shoulders look abnormally squared.

"Fine," Dean said, sighing. He made to rummage through his locker but stopped when he realized that Principal Boomer was still standing there.

"Did you want something?" Dean asked politely.

"Yes," he replied.

Dean raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"You," Principal Boomer said. "At lunch. Detention."

"What for?" Dean asked, heat rising in his face.

"Class started fifteen minutes ago," Boomer said, turning on a heel and walking imperiously away. "We'll be seeing you in my office at 11:45."

Dean slammed his locker shut.

888

Lunch hour was much better on the second day of school, now that Sam had made a few friends. He was deep in conversation with a boy named Brody – a hyperactive teen with an oversexed mind and a rough case of teenaged acne, as they made their way toward the cafeteria. Tom and Lucy, a devoted couple with three weeks of romantic bliss together under their belts, walked hand in hand beside them, listening in and contributing here and there with the odd comment.

"And they're completely re-mastered," Brody was saying. "You can tell in the scenes on Tatooine how the shadows underneath the cruisers have been cleaned up."

"Yeah," Sam said absently, not really caring about Star Wars. He was hoping to run into Andrea.

"But they changed the song in the Cantina, though," Brody explained sadly.

"Uh-huh," Sam droned, trying to look interested. Then he saw her.

She was wearing a light tank top with a fuzzy pink sweater overtop, and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, making her look like a dream girl from a 1950s movie. All she needed was the hoop skirt, Sam thought.

"Hi, Sam," she said, smiling.

"Hi!" Sam said, his heart skipping a beat. "How are you? Have you had your lunch? Would you like to eat lunch with us?"

"I'm fine," she giggled. "I haven't eaten lunch, and I would love to eat with you." It mattered that she had said you in a very particular way, Sam thought. It sounded much more like you-Sam than you-Everybody.

They passed the principal's office on their way to the cafeteria, and through the window Sam could make out the tell-tale figure of Dean sitting impatiently in one of the visitors' chairs. He was slouched back with his arms resting on the backs of the other chairs, his legs extended in apparent repose, but his right foot was tapping anxiously. Dean was pissed.

"Who is that guy?" Lucy asked, noticing Sam's eyes on the young man in the principal's office. "I saw him in here at lunch yesterday too."

"Really?" Sam asked.

"I think he's new," Brody said. "I haven't seen him before."

"I heard my sister talking to her best friend Marcy on the phone," Andrea said, "and she said that some new guy got in trouble for calling Todd Weston a dick in the middle of English class yesterday."

"No way!" Lucy said breathlessly.

"So have you guys seen the re-mastered Star Wars trilogy?" Sam asked hopefully.

888

It was a thing of joy to fantasize about food. _Steak dinner with mashed potatoes_, Dean thought. _No, a double bacon cheeseburger with extra onions and a side of chilli-fries. No, pizza with the works, beer, and pie for dessert_. He was so hungry he could almost taste each meal as it floated through his mind.

He crossed the parking lot to the Impala, hoping to see Sam already waiting there, but found that, like yesterday, he had made it here first. He leaned against the hood of the car, arms folded across his chest, and waited. And waited.

Ten minutes went by with no sign of Sam. Twenty. Twenty-five. Thirty minutes.

"What the hell?" he muttered harshly to himself, thinking of how satisfying it would be to get back to Bobby's and shove Sam's face in the toilet. His stomach growled. After skipping breakfast and spending lunch in detention, Dean was thoroughly starving.

He heaved a sigh and decided to head back inside the school, in case Sam had been shoved into a locker or something. But just as he raised himself to standing position, he saw that someone was approaching him. And she was very pretty.

"Hi," she said, taking a few tentative steps toward him. "You're Dean, right?"

Dean recognized her as the pretty girl from his English class. Seeing her up close, he now realized that she was much prettier than he had originally thought. With long dark hair that curled into ringlets at the tips, large, deep brown eyes, and soft pouty lips, she was at present the prettiest girl Dean had ever seen. And her body – _smokin' hot_ – round hips tucked snugly into tight jeans, a small, slender waist, and two hand-fulls of cleavage hid nicely in a soft, blue V-neck sweater. He couldn't help the appreciative smile that spread across his face.

"Yeah," he said, feeling a warm humming running through his body and leaning back once again against the car.

"I'm Tina," she said. She took a few more tentative steps toward him.

"I don't bite," Dean teased, noticing her two-steps-forward approach to talking to him.

"Sorry." She laughed nervously and tucked a long lock of hair behind her ear. She was holding a set of keys in her hand. So she hadn't just come here to see Dean, he realized.

"It's really cool what you did yesterday," she said. "In class. You, uh… You have an interesting way of looking at things."

"Just calling it how I see it," Dean said simply. _My God she's beautiful_.

"So you like English?" she asked.

"Not really."

"Oh." She sat next to Dean on the Impala. "Then you're just really smart?"

"Not really." Then he smiled winsomely. "I'm more brawn than brains."

That comment elicited the hoped-for laugh.

"You're funny," she said. Then she bit her lip and gave him a sidelong glance. "Todd Weston wants to get you back for showing him up in class."

"Yeah, I'll bet he does," Dean said.

"And you're not worried?"

"Not really."

She nudged him playfully with her shoulder, laughing.

"You don't say much, do you?"

"What do you want me to say?" Her eyes were captivating. "So you and Todd… Are you an item?"

"Me and Todd?" she asked, scoffing. "God no. He's been pestering me for weeks to go out with him but…"

"You're looking for a guy with more brawn?" Dean suggested.

"Right," she agreed. "And someone with freckles." She extended her index finger and lightly grazed the soft patch of freckles on Dean's cheekbones. "Right here."

The touch of her fingers against his skin sent a flood of adrenaline rushing through him. He felt his breath catch in his throat and had to stifle a gasp. His eyelids fluttered; his heart thudded against his chest. That touch – it was like fire igniting inside him, blooming in sweet tendrils in his abdomen. And the humming in his blood raised in pitch and intensity, drowning out thought and reason.

He leaned in to kiss her, their lips meeting in a sweet collision of gloss and stubble. And then they were lost to it. The world melted away to intense hunger as the two bodies grasped at each other, tasting, feeding. Dean could scarce draw breath, and he could tell from Tina's gasps that she was as lost as he was. They fell onto the hood of the Impala, grappling with each other as if material things such as clothes and privacy were mere inconveniences. It had to be now. He wanted her now.

_On_ _the hood of the Impala. In broad daylight. In front of the school…_

"Oh my God!" Dean gasped, tearing himself away from her kiss and drawing a deep breath.

Tina's eyes had a momentarily glazed look to them, but with Dean's sudden removal from her grasp, they went back into focus.

"Oh God!" she whispered, horrified. "What were we doing?"

"I don't know!" Dean admitted, his heart still beating wildly. It frightened him how quickly things had escalated. "Kind of got lost in the moment."

Tina gave her sweater a self-conscious tug, pulling it up higher over her neckline as if to hide the flesh. She remembered with a tremor of pleasure the feeling of Dean's hands on her. Her cheeks burned red.

Neither of them spoke.

"So listen," Dean finally said, stepping away from the Impala. "I've got to find my brother. I was supposed to drive him home almost an hour ago."

"You mean Sam?" she asked, gladly seizing upon the chance to talk about anything other than what just happened.

"Yeah."

"He's at my house," she said. "My little sister Andrea took him home to study or something."

"Huh," Dean huffed.

"He's a cutie," she added.

"Well he's about to be a dead cutie," Dean muttered. "Sonofabitch."

"He didn't tell you?" she asked delicately. Dean scowled in reply. "Oh. Not good."

"And I've been sitting here waiting all this time," Dean said ruefully. "His head's definitely going in the toilet for this!"

Tina peeled herself off of the Impala and laid a reassuring hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Don't be too hard on him," she said softly. Their eyes met. "Besides. If he'd been on time, we never would have had the chance to… talk."

They were being drawn to each other again. The humming was filling his head. His eyes were fluttering closed, his lips were grazing hers.

"Sam," Dean said, eyes still closed. "Gotta go get Sam."

Tina cleared her throat.

"Right," she said, composing herself. "And I have… stuff. I should go."

She backed away awkwardly, nearly tripping over her own feet.

"Keys," she said with a laugh, remembering the keys in her pocket and pulling them out with a jingle.

"Right," Dean said. _Walk away. Just keep walking_.

"You can follow me in your car," she said, still backing away toward her car. "You know – to get Sam."

"To get Sam," Dean said, nodding emphatically. He opened the front door of the car and glanced back. She was watching him. Her eyes never left him as she continued to back away.

"Hey Dean?" she asked.

"Yeah?"

She bit her lip in thought.

"This thing… here. With us? It's…"

"Weird." He knew exactly how she felt.

888

"And Mr. Harcourt sneaks out every class for about ten minutes and you just know he's going for a smoke-break," Andrea was saying. "It's like you can see the internal timer go off reminding him to go for the next nicotine fix."

Sam laughed. The Calders had a lovely home. With three storeys, four bathrooms, an indoor pool, and a separate wing for the kids, it was by far the nicest house he had ever been in. It was the kind of house that makes you feel self-conscious about touching the walls. Tall ceilings, grand staircases, large and outlandish pieces of art, and a sanitized cleanliness gave it a museum kind of quality.

He and Andrea were studying in the 'rumpus room,' which was the girls' part of the house to have fun and unwind in without disturbing or disrupting their parents. They had everything here: a fridge, pool table, big screen TV, two large sectional couches, video game consoles. There was even an intercom so that their parents could reach them without having to resort to using the phone.

Sam would give anything to live in a house a quarter the size of this one if it meant having a place to come home to every day, and having a regular set of friends with regular classes and teachers that knew him and knew his work ethic. The constant moving around, the late nights, the absenteeism – he was forever having to prove himself with each new situation. Always starting from scratch.

But this? This was being established. This was being firmly rooted. This was so grounded it was an Amazonian rainforest. Andrea's parents had built a real life for themselves. They had worked hard, studied hard, fought hard, and had thrived. Sam wanted to thrive. He didn't want to just eke out a meagre existence, making crap wages at a garage, or making no wages at all hunting demons. Granted, he didn't need to be an Amazonian rainforest. He'd settle for being Sherwood Forest (which, he'd heard, was quite sparse) – so long as it meant he had roots.

"What's the matter?" Andrea suddenly asked. "You're quiet."

Sam smiled.

"It's nothing. I was just spacing out, I guess."

In spite of how much he liked her, and in spite of what he thought was an equal liking for him on her part, Sam was pleased to note that Andrea was quite smart. She hadn't been joking about wanting to help him study, nor had the invitation been a pretence. As planned, she had hauled out her notes and had gone through them with Sam, filling him in on the things that he'd missed, refreshing for him things that he had already learned before, and giving him the low-down on what all the different teachers were like and what he could expect. She had a good work ethic: she was hard-working and competitive, academically. She wanted to go to Harvard some day.

"If you could have one wish," she asked thoughtfully. "What would it be?"

The words were off his lips before he could even think about it.

"That my mom never died."

A horrible silence filled the room and Sam wished he could snap his fingers and erase the moment completely. She was looking at him – he could feel her eyes on him. He didn't even have to face her: he knew what her expression would be. Pity.

"How about you?" Sam asked, knowing that she would never allow the conversation to just move forward after dropping a bombshell like that.

"I'm sorry," she whispered sadly. "How did she –? What happened to her?"

Sam sighed.

"She died in a fire," he said quietly. "It was a long time ago. I was just a baby. I don't remember it. I don't even remember her."

"Really?"

"I guess it's just that my life would be so different if she hadn't…" he trailed off.

Another awkward moment of silence followed.

"My friend Caitlin just lost her dad a few weeks ago," Andrea said at last.

"What happened to him?"

Andrea shrugged.

"They don't know. He disappeared. And then later they found him dead in the woods."

"Was it an animal attack?" Sam asked. His hunter's instincts were already kicking in. He hated that they were kicking in. It was like a knee-jerk reaction.

"No, I don't think so." She paused. "This is going to sound weird, but they don't know how he died. Like I guess they examined him and everything, but they weren't able to figure out what killed him. He just… died."

"A heart attack?" Sam asked.

"No. He just _died_."

Now that was strange.

Sam was about to ask more questions, but stopped himself. _This is stupid. People die all the time. This isn't your job. It's Dad's job. It's Dean's job. You're just a kid and you're in school and this is not your problem. A man died. People die all the time_.

"How's she handling it?" Sam asked, bringing his mind back to the discussion.

"She's pretty wrecked," Andrea said. "I mean, you only get one dad, right?"

_You got that right_. Only one dad and one brother, apparently. He felt terrible for wishing he could trade sometimes. But he did. Every time they landed in a new town and got rooted to it for more than a few weeks, Sam found himself wishing.

Just then there was the sound of a door opening, followed by footsteps on the stairs. Hushed voices followed two figures down the staircase into the rumpus room. Sam smiled politely at Andrea's sister Tina, who he had met when they were leaving school, and at…

"Dean," he said.

"Yeah, hi ass face," Dean remarked. "Thanks for telling me you'd be coming here and leaving me waiting in the parking lot for an hour."

Sam had completely forgotten to tell Dean about his study date with Andrea. But then, he felt it did serve him right for almost making him late this morning.

"Sorry," Sam said. "I guess I wasn't thinking."

"No surprises there," Dean muttered. He looked around the room appraisingly, his eyes going wide as he took inventory of all the cool things at the girls' disposal.

"I didn't realize you were a Vanderbilt," he said offhandedly to Tina.

"I didn't think you had much time to realize I was an anything," she said pointedly.

Dean laid a hand to his chest and made a face of mock pain and insult.

"I noticed you were pretty," he said winsomely.

Sam groaned.

"All right, grab your things," Dean ordered. "We're going."

Yes, Sam often found himself wishing that he could trade.


	3. Chapter 3

He imagined he could hear the sound of water running in the bathroom. A TV running in the background, broadcasting some program – it didn't matter which one – filled the empty space in his mind as well. A taunt from one of his boys calling to the other to jibe about something or other, the other boy retorting with something equally funny, with Dean mussing up Sam's shaggy mop of hair, or Sam giving Dean a hard cuff in the arm: these were the images that flooded his mind and made the empty room home.

John Winchester sat on the bed, his gun on his lap and his cell phone in his hand, and thought about the sounds that should have been filling this room. But all was quiet. There was no one running water in the bathroom. No one watched TV. And his boys weren't there with him to fill the quiet in his mind with their presence. He was alone.

Taking a deep breath, John lifted the phone to his ear and listened to the message again.

"_Hey Dad. It's Dean. I, uh… Well we haven't heard from you yet and I was just checking to make sure you were ok… [pause] Sammy's doin' all right. Making it to classes and already shooting for the honour role. And Bobby's good… [pause] It's not the same here without you… [long pause] So listen. You'll call me, right… if you need anything? If you need me… Well, just call me, ok?"_

John held the phone in his hand for a moment, staring at it as though staring through it.

_You're killin' me, kid_. He knew Dean would call. It was his way. Check in on Dad, give an update on Sam. He had even thought to mention how Bobby was doing. _How are _you_ doing, Dean?_ He hadn't said. _You're breakin' my heart, son_.

Just one more time, he thought, raising the phone to his ear again.

_"Hey Dad. It's Dean…"_

888

For the first time in years, Dean decided to shut in early for the night. He had made a half-hearted attempt at getting some school work done, but finding it both boring and pointless had quickly given up on it. Then he had tried to help Bobby with some research on a potential hunt, but that had led to nothing. They simply didn't have any books on things that caused your brain to swell and your eyes to melt out of your head, so Bobby had tucked that job away into the "some day later" pile. Resigning at last to boredom and fatigue, Dean had decided to go to sleep.

And now that he was alone in bed, staring at the blank ceiling ahead of him while a thick spring dug into his back, he couldn't help but think of the bizarre incident with Tina today. It had been so strange and so… overwhelming. One minute he was admiring her, and the next he was almost possessed with lust. Well, _not almost_. For a moment he had been completely taken over. And from her sudden and shocked collision with reality after the event, he could tell that she had been possessed as well. What had come over them?

He was certainly no stranger to sex, though three months shy of eighteen. He had been intimate before: had tasted the flesh of several women before, in fact. But this was different. This had been a loss of control. A complete giving in to the impulses and drives of the body while the mind went to sleep. There weren't many things that scared Dean Winchester, but this did.

These troubled thoughts followed him on his journey to sleep. He flinched and tossed and turned, restless and uneasy even as he slumbered. Visions of himself being led through the motions of life like a marionette – Dean Winchester as Pinocchio – danced through his head.

It was the smell of flowers that woke him.

He opened his eyes, expecting to see her there, knowing somehow that she would be there. Floating, and naked. She was close, her lips already grazing his this time. Strawberries.

"I want you," she breathed. Her flaming red hair danced about her face, casting eerie shadows on her porcelain white skin.

She caressed his jaw with an extended hand, sending electric shocks of pleasure vibrating through his body.

"What are you?" Dean asked, thinking somewhere in the back of his mind that he should be reaching for the salt to banish this thing _now_.

"I want you," she repeated, smothering further questions with her lips on his.

Dean surrendered himself to her kiss, feeling the fire inside him igniting, growing, and burning within him. It was all-consuming, overwhelming, and unbearable.

She kissed his neck, trailing tracks of blossoming sensations through her lips along his skin, over his collar bone. He gasped. Across his chest and down the length of his abdomen. Fingers clenching the sheets. Down, down.

_Oh God!_

He awoke, his fists clenching the sheets of his bed in a death-like grip. He was alone, he noted with intense relief, and he was… aroused. He heaved a sigh and relaxed into the bed, allowing his body to sink like a stone. _Get a girlfriend, Dean_, he told himself. These dreams had to stop.

888

Friday arrived at last. The bright October sun shone in all its mid-afternoon glory and Dean drank in its rays with relish. The week was over. He would be free of school for two whole days. He could see the Impala in the student parking lot, her sweet glossy black coat glinting, shining like a black sexy beacon in the brightness of the day. Ten minutes – ten minutes and the bell would ring and he would be free. He gazed out the window, staring at his black beauty with longing, and dreamed of things not related to reading, writing, and arithmetic. It was a fact not lost on his teacher.

"Have you discovered one of the Seven Wonders of the World, Mr. Winchester?" Mr. Lowery asked archly. "Or are you just very stoned?"

Dean was roused from his reverie. He turned reluctantly away from the window and faced the front, looking at the spindly, frazzle-haired man with an expression of deepest boredom. _I just don't care_, his face said. _Look into my eyes and see that I don't care_, it said. _And leave me alone_.

"Moving on," Mr. Lowery said. He hovered in front of the chalkboard with an arm raised, a piece of chalk poised above the dark green slab in readiness.

"Now, who can tell me what the basic principles of the Communist movement were?"

Dean watched the clock. Eight minutes.

"_Blah, blah, blah. Proletariat"._

Four minutes.

"_Blah, blah, blah. Comrades."_

One minute.

"_Don't forget your assignments for Monday."_

And then he was free.

Dean snatched up his books and was out the door like a shot. He made a beeline for his locker, not pausing to stop and chat or to even move out of the way from the throngs of people making their way through the crowded halls. His hands were spinning the dial of the lock; it clicked and he tugged it open. He tossed his books in his locker. _You're not going to do your homework and you know it_. He grabbed his jacket from its hook and slid it onto his shoulders.

"Dean!"

He stumbled back a step, having nearly collided with Tina.

"Tina!" he said. He had not expected to see her here.

She paused, watching him expectantly.

"How are you?" she asked.

"Good. Good." This was awkward.

"I didn't see you yesterday," she said. "Well, I mean, I saw you in class. But I didn't see you around."

"I was around," he replied evasively.

"Oh." She sounded slightly disappointed. "Well I'll just go, then."

He was blowing it.

"Wait – hang on," he said, calling her back before she could leave. "But I'm here now. Can I walk you to your car?"

"It's parked right next to yours," she said dryly.

"Even better," he joked. "It's not even out of my way."

They made their way together through the crowded hall. It struck Dean as being particularly funny that he and Sam should be interested in girls from the same family. There was something oddly incestuous about it. As if in response to his thoughts, he noticed Sam coming up the hall out of the corner of his eye, chatting away happily with Andrea. She was giggling at something that he said, and stood close to him, allowing her body to sway toward him when she laughed. Sam didn't seem to have noticed.

"So are you going to the dance?" Tina asked, sidling a little bit closer to Dean.

"Dance?" Dean asked. _Oh, hell no_.

"Yeah, the Halloween dance. It's next Friday. Just for Seniors."

"Are you?" Dean asked.

She shrugged.

"I was thinking about it. But I was hoping someone would ask me to go, first."

Dean smiled broadly.

"You mean Todd hasn't asked you?" He allowed his voice to dip low at the name Todd.

"He did," she said playfully. "But I said no. I'm not into brainy types."

_Now that was funny_.

Dean laughed, feeling more impressed with Tina by the minute.

"Yeah, jocks can be pretty intense with the studying and the excessive thinking," Dean agreed.

They passed through the front doors and into the sunlight.

"So the dance," she persisted.

_Damnit_.

"You like to dance, huh?" Dean asked. _Would it be stupid to suggest they do something else on the night of the dance? Anything would be better than a dance_.

"I do." She was smiling with those perfect teeth flashing at him. Her deep, dark eyes were drawing him in again. "I might even like to dance with you."

He swallowed hard.

His keys were missing. He groped in his jacket pocket but could find no sign of them. He patted his jeans but the keys weren't there either. All thoughts of flirting with Tina were abandoned at this alarming discovery.

"My keys," he muttered, rummaging through his pockets again for good measure. "Just hold that thought. I'll be right back."

They weren't in his locker. He searched it from top to bottom, tearing out every item inside it, but there was no sign of them at all. He retraced his steps through the hallway, scouring the floor with his green eyes, but they were not there.

"Crap!"

He returned to the front steps to where he had left Tina waiting.

"I can't find my keys," he explained, frustration welling inside him. His dad had just given him ownership of the Impala. How could he have let this happen, and so soon?

"You lost your keys?" Sam's voice called from somewhere behind him, mocking playfully. "Oh Dad's _so_ gonna kill you."

"Shut up, Sam," Dean growled.

He'd have to hotwire it. That was all there was to it. He shuddered inwardly at the very prospect of violating his baby like that, but they didn't exactly live close by, and they needed to get home. If he could have kicked himself he would have.

But then something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. A letterman's jacket, an arm extended, dangling a set of keys. Todd.

"Looking for these, Winchester?"

Todd Weston was sitting not twenty yards away, his face smug and menacing, dangling a set of keys in the air. And he was not alone. A posse of football players, all in their matching red and white jackets, stood cockily behind him, snickering and chuckling at Dean as he approached.

"I'm only going to ask you this once," Dean said, marching forward with lethal intent. The blood was pumping through his body, pounding in his ears. "Give me my fucking keys."

"That was asking?" Todd said archly.

"Give me the keys, bitch!" Dean warned.

"Or you'll do what?" Todd asked darkly, standing up and stepping towards Dean.

To the casual observer, Dean Winchester was dead meat. He was outnumbered and outweighed by his opponent, who easily had fifty pounds of muscle and bulk over him. Todd Weston was not a giant, by any means, but he was tall and solid and large. Years of playing football had given him a sturdy, linebacker frame that made Dean look miniscule by comparison. And while Dean had a tenacious, fiery temper and confidence enough to take on any opponent, he was still growing into his 6' frame, his muscles lean and well-defined, but hardly bulky or burly like the testosterone-driven jock threatening him now.

"Come on, Dean," Tina pleaded quietly. "Let's just go."

"Dean, what's going on?" Sam asked. He had followed them.

"Go wait by the car, Sam!" Dean ordered.

"Come on, Todd," Tina pleaded. "Just give him his keys back."

Todd ignored her.

"You know, I don't know why she's bothering wasting her time with you," he said scathingly. "Maybe she's always had a fantasy about slumming it."

"Keep talking," Dean said coldly. "While you still have your teeth."

"Did he tell you he's staying with Crazy Bobby?" Todd asked Tina. It came out like an accusation. "Freeman saw this one –" indicating Sam "—getting out of Spooky Singer's car the other day."

It had never occurred to Dean that the kids at school would have ever heard about Bobby Singer, or that they would have any reason to dislike him. But considering how rotten people could be, it didn't surprise him. It only made him hate Todd more.

"Maybe you two can go shack up in his junkyard shack and slaughter chickens and virgins and howl at the moon."

The jocks laughed.

"Last warning," Dean said, his voice so low it was barely above a whisper.

Todd smirked and made as if he was about to turn away, then suddenly spun and lunged, swinging with a fist aimed at Dean's face. Dean shifted his weight, twisting his torso slightly, caught the fist in his left palm, and then jabbed hard with his right into Todd's gut. He doubled over in pain, where Dean promptly grabbed his face and pulled it toward his knee as he raised it, cracking Todd in the face.

Todd fell to the ground on his back, stunned and grunting in pain. Blood gushed from his nose.

"Keys," Dean said smartly, snatching his keys from Todd's outstretched hand and stepping away, smiling a charming smile at Tina.

The group of assembled football players shifted uneasily where they stood, a few of them making ready to advance on Dean, but most of them looking as though they dared not attempt it.

"You guys wanna come at me all at once like a bunch of cowards, that's fine," Dean said. "I'll still kick your asses."

They backed anxiously away.

"Can't say I didn't warn him," he said pleasantly as he cast one last look at Todd, who was still lying on the ground, holding his hands over his nose.

888

He really couldn't say he hadn't warned him. The guy had stolen his keys, had insulted Bobby, and had taken a swing at him. All three were recipe for an ass-pounding. But more importantly, he had taken a swing at him in front of Sam. Adding Sam to the mix automatically meant that all bets were off. The fool had been warned and got what he deserved.

"What the hell did you just do?" Tina asked, wide-eyed, as she, Dean, and Sam made their way toward the student parking lot.

"I got my keys back," Dean said lightly, smiling winsomely.

"How did you—?" she stammered. "I mean… What the hell _was_ that?"

Dean didn't reply, but continued to walk, a self-satisfied smile warming his handsome features.

"Did you see that?" Tina asked Sam incredulously. She felt someone should be as shocked and confused and impressed as she was.

Sam grinned broadly.

_That's my big brother_, Sam thought proudly. There were moments, like now or when they were hunting, when he would watch Dean with a kind of pride akin to hero-worship. Sure, Dean could be silly, and annoying, and braindead sometimes, but he was also sharp, and brave, and strong. And seeing him fight, watching him apply their dad's military training with such artful precision, filled Sam with awe. Their dad was a strong, efficient fighter. Dean was a master. Sam hoped that some day he'd be that good.

"Ok seriously," Tina said, stopping at her car. "You were like a Ninja back there."

"Why thank you," Dean replied with emphasis, grinning at Sam. "I _was_ like a Ninja, wasn't I?"

"How did you learn to fight like that?" she asked.

"All in good time," Dean said evasively. "Let's peel back the layers slowly. Leave some mysteries to uncover for later."

Tina shook her head in wonder.


	4. Chapter 4

A cool wind blew the shaggy shock of bangs away from his forehead, sending a slight chill through his slender frame. He stood stock still, panting from the effort, his muscles rigid, his frame set and ready to pounce. The late afternoon sun sunk low on the horizon, casting a warm red glow over his brown hair. He wished he had worn a jacket. The sweat on his back was beginning to cool as the breeze ruffled his shirt.

The field was not far from Bobby's house, a ten-minute walk at most. Tall dried grass around them gave them the illusion of privacy, though in truth no one would be around to see them this far off the main road anyway. It was one of the reasons Bobby had chosen this location.

"Don't waste your energy," Dean instructed. "You wanna be fast, hit hard, but always keeping your movements simple."

Dean stood a few feet away from him, at ease, relaxed, and completely unruffled. He was irritatingly _not_ out of breath.

"Come at me again," Dean said.

Sam waited and watched for an opening, but Dean didn't move. He remained in place, his hands in his pockets, an annoying smile on his face.

"I don't have a chance if you're going to just stand there," Sam complained.

"What, and you think the monsters are going to turn their backs to let you sneak up on them?" Dean shook his head condescendingly. "Dude, they don't fight fair."

"Fine!" Sam snapped, advancing.

He circled Dean, moving slowly, carefully_. Look for a weak spot_, Dean had said. _Hit them where it hurts, and fight dirty if you have to. When it's life and death, it doesn't matter _how_ you win – it only matters _that_ you win_.

He jabbed with his right fist but Dean effortlessly swatted it away with a slap that stung the skin on his knuckles.

"Ow!" Sam squealed.

Dean smiled.

Sam stepped back a pace, circling again. _Weak spot. Weak spot. Dean's a mountain compared to me_, Sam thought. _He doesn't have a weak spot_.

He moved in again, striking again with his right. Again, Dean slapped the hand away.

"Dude, your feet!" he reminded in exasperation.

"What about them?"

Dean swept his right leg out, catching Sam in the legs and knocking him to the ground.

"Nothing," he said sarcastically. "Your stance was just perfect."

He reached out and took Sam's hand, helping him to his feet.

_It doesn't matter _how_ you win_, Sam thought as he took the proffered hand, shifting his weight from his left foot to his right and swinging, hard as he could with his left knee, kicking Dean between the legs.

Dean let out a startled groan of pain and fell to his knees, gasping.

"Ha-ha!" Sam shouted gleefully. "I got you! I actually freaking got you!"

It was a triumphant moment for the youngest Winchester. For the first time in his life he had beaten Dean – had actually been able to be anything other than a pesky fly that he could easily swat away. It would definitely have been more satisfying if he hadn't had to cheat to land the blow, but Sam wasn't about to get caught up on details like that at such a time as this. He would have plenty of time, when he got bigger and stronger, to beat Dean again.

"Oh God," Dean groaned, one hand on the ground to hold himself up and the other draped across his lower half protectively.

"That thing you did there," he said huskily, "pulling against me to get momentum – that was good."

Sam grinned.

"That other thing," Dean panted. "Kicking me in the nads – that was bad."

Sam gave Dean a few minutes to recover, the grin spreading on his face at his brother's misery. His wrist still hurt from when Dean had twisted his arm behind his back and pinned it there not long ago, so he was glad to see that Dean's pain took its time to ebb away.

"All right," Dean said at last. "Come at me again."

It was an hour well spent. Dean showed him how to block and parry, which was essential in a fight. And to Sam's extreme surprise and intense delight, Dean also let him hit him so that he could perfect his punch.

"See if you can make me bleed, little brother," he said with a grin.

"Does it bother you that you're perpetuating this vicious cycle?" a strange female voice asked.

Both boys jumped and turned in the direction of the sound. A young girl was standing there, looking to be no older than Dean's age, her arms folded across a puffy black sleeveless vest. She was pretty, though extremely short, with pixie short blonde hair and striking blue eyes.

"The next generation of hunters out training in the fading light. Makes me want to ralph."

"Who the hell are you?" Dean demanded.

"Jessie," the girl said. "My dad's a friend of Bobby's. He's in the house."

"Yeah?" Dean asked sceptically, already on the move.

The news that someone was in the house with Bobby had obviously set Dean on edge. He made his way toward the house with long, determined strides, not even bothering to look back to see if Jessie was following. Sam stayed close on Dean's heels.

When they approached the house they saw a blue Camaro in the driveway.

"Bobby!" Dean called when he opened the front door.

But there was no cause for alarm. Bobby was seated in his faded old lounge chair, a beer in his hand, and deep in conversation with a middle-aged man neither Dean or Sam recognized. The man was tall and gruff-looking, with blonde hair that was turning white at the temples. A thick, rust-coloured beard covered his chin and most of his mouth, giving him a very square and blockish-looking face. Another strange man, younger and with the same fair hair, was standing next to him.

"There you are!" Bobby said when Sam and Dean entered. "Boys, there's someone I want you to meet."

He stood up from his chair and led the boys toward the strangers.

"Dean, Sam," Bobby said, "this is Roy Mason," indicating the older gentleman, "and his son James. And I see you've already met Jessie."

"Roy, James –" laying a hand on Dean's shoulder, "this is Dean, and Sam Winchester."

"Jessie and James?" Dean asked with a smirk. "Pleasure to meet you. I'm Wyatt, and this is my brother Earp."

Bobby cuffed Dean across the back of the head.

"Don't mind him," he apologized. "Thinking hurts him."

The Masons' visit, it turned out, was not entirely social. A series of unexplained deaths in town had drawn them here, and though they couldn't be certain, they suspected that there might be a hunt to investigate.

"Three deaths," Roy explained. "All men. All gone missing for a few days and then found later – dead for no apparent reason."

"You got any leads?" Bobby asked.

"None yet," Roy said. "We can't find a pattern. The men were all from different backgrounds, had different jobs, were different ages… The bodies were found in different parts of town."

"That is strange," Bobby admitted.

"The only thing they have in common, so far, is that they're dead," James said with an awkward laugh. "And that they died the same way."

"Whatever that is," Dean agreed.

"So you guys find this stuff, and you don't bother givin' me a call to say what's up?" Bobby asked archly. "After all, I live right here in town."

Roy grinned.

"Thought maybe you were off with Winchester Senior," he said. "What with the big evil a-brewin' in Cleveland."

"Well you thought wrong," Bobby replied.

"So listen," Roy said, his tone suddenly serious. "The reason I stopped by is that I was wondering if you could keep an eye out on Jessie while James and I take care of business. We'll be in and out of town hunting down leads, and we were thinking maybe you could just drop her a line every now and then – make sure she stays out of trouble."

"I'm seventeen!" she protested loudly. "I can look after myself!"

Her father ignored her.

"We're stayin' at the Motorway Motel back in town – right off the turnpike, can't miss it. If you could just pop by every now and then, make sure she's ok. And we'll leave her your number so she can call you if there's any trouble."

"Yeah, of course," Bobby said. "You know she can stay here if you want."

"NO!" Jessie protested, in stereo with James (who was eying Dean sceptically).

"She's better off at the motel," James assured his dad. "Somehow I think she's more likely to get in trouble here." He cast another leery look at Dean.

"What?" Dean asked defensively. James ignored him.

"We're heading out in the morning to look into some deaths that happened a few years ago in one of the neighbouring towns," Roy continued. "So Jessie can call you if she needs anything?"

"Absolutely," Bobby assured him.

"All right then," Roy said. "We'd better be taking off, then. We've got an early morning and a lot of ground to cover. Nice meeting you boys," he gave a cursive nod to Dean and Sam.

After the Masons had left, Bobby let out a long, slow whistle through his teeth.

"What?" Dean asked.

"That poor bastard," Bobby said, shaking his head ruefully. "I'd heard through the grapevine that that daughter of his, Jessie, was a bit of a hand-full. But now that he's set us to babysit the damned thing I can say for sure that it's true."

"A hand-full?" Dean asked, his curiosity piqued.

"Real rebellious," Bobby explained. "Won't listen to a damned word her daddy says. Stayin' out all night and going to wild parties. Girl's out of control."

"Really?" Dean asked, his curiosity _really_ piqued now.

"Best stay away from her, son," Bobby warned. "You'll have her daddy and big brother to answer to if you don't."

888

Dean awoke to the scent of flowers. His floating dream-woman had returned, hovering even more closely this time, her skin barely grazing the blankets. He watched her, wide-eyed, as she slowly pulled the covers down, exposing his bare chest, arms, and legs to the cool night air. Goosebumps rose up on his flesh as she ran an extended finger along his torso.

"I want you," she whispered.

Her breath on his neck was hot, her lips moist. She kissed him lightly, tentatively, coaxing him to yield to her. The touch of her soft lips in that delicate spot below his ear sent a ripple through him. His head hummed loudly.

"I want you," she pressed, running her hands along his chest.

His tension was ebbing away. He wanted to resist – something in the back of his mind told him that he should – but the humming drowned everything out. The world was fading away, leaving nothing but the sensation of her touch, the tingling, burning, tantalising warmth of her touch. It ignited within him, screaming its will be done.

"I want you," she said again, her fingers creeping under the elastic band of his boxer shorts.

He couldn't stand it any longer. He abandoned himself to the humming, let it fill him completely, inundating him with a pounding, urgent need. His hands wound themselves into her mass of flaming red hair, pulling her face to his so that he could return her kiss.

It was invitation enough. She came to him at last, her body settling on top of his and warming him to the marrow of his bones. Her skin was so smooth it was like touching something velvet or liquid – fluid and yielding to his touch. He wanted to melt into that flesh, become a part of it, be enveloped and taken over completely by it. The need filled every fibre of his being.

The world melted away in an explosion of sensation as their bodies became one. All was one, and all was in her – the velvety mistress of his passion. He gasped for breath, feeling himself becoming a part of her, being drawn into her with each movement. His body was so aflame with her that he could think of nothing else. Nothing else in the world existed but the here and now – the humming, the burning, the melding. Everything else was lost.

"You are mine," she whispered.

Dean cried out, pushed beyond endurance, beyond pleasure and pain. Then everything went dark.

888

He awoke to the sound of birdsong outside his window, the bright morning sun peeking through the curtains and casting warm light upon his face. His blankets were tucked snugly around him, creating a safe cocoon of warmth in the chill morning air.

It had been a dream. Again. Dean wiped a weary hand across his face and decided that it was finally time to do some research on his mystery naked dream-woman. As undeniably pleasant as the dreams were, the frequency and mounting intensity of them made him feel uneasy. There were things that could get people in their dreams. He'd heard about them. There were also things that could come at people while they were sleeping or sick. Succubi and incubi, for example, were known to visit people while they slept to have sex with them.

Dean suppressed a shudder at the thought that he had actually had sex with someone hovering over his bed. No, it had to have been a dream. He would know if it had been real. He would feel it.

He made his way downstairs to find Sam and Bobby both already up and at the kitchen table. Bobby read through an ancient manuscript while Sam pored over a school textbook, shoving spoonfuls of cereal into his mouth as his eyes scanned the pages. Dean shuffled over to the coffee pot and poured himself a steaming cup, sighing contentedly as he held it up to his mouth and inhaled the fresh, delicious scent.

"Studying on a Saturday morning," Dean mused aloud. "I swear to God you are the biggest nerd-bot ever to walk the planet."

"Mid-terms are in two weeks, Dean," Sam muttered, not taking his eyes off of his book. "I have a lot of catching up to do and not a lot of time to do it."

"I don't know why you're freaking out about it," Dean said. "You know you're going to pass. You've never failed anything in your life."

"I'm not trying to pass," Sam retorted. "I need to ace it. If I want to get into a good college some day, my marks have got to be competitive."

"College?" Dean asked. He knew that Sam wanted to get out of this life, but somehow it always surprised him to hear him talking about his plans to get out. For Dean, wanting to get out and actually doing it were two very different things.

"Yeah, Dean," Sam said. "As soon as I graduate I'm outta here. I'm going to college and I'm going to build a real life… Get the hell away from this freak show."

"My mistake," Dean said defensively. "I forgot that you have more important things to do, like abandoning your family and your responsibilities. And all those innocent people whose lives we save? Forget about them, right? Sam's got a future to think about."

"How about we just take a breather there boys," Bobby suggested delicately.

"No, it's fine," Dean said calmly. "Sammy's got it all figured out."

He set his half-empty coffee cup on the counter.

"Excuse me," he said. "I'd better go get showered so I can get back to my freak show."

And with that he turned and stormed out of the room, marched up the stairs and slammed the door to his bedroom.

Bobby and Sam were left alone in the kitchen in awkward silence. Sam turned his attention immediately back to his studying, while Bobby merely sat in stunned discomfort.

"Maybe you should go talk to him," Bobby suggested.

"Why?" Sam asked absently, eyes still poring over the page he'd been reading. "I'm not sorry. I have nothing to apologize for. And I know he's not sorry. So what should I talk to him about?"

"Well," Bobby said, at an obvious loss for words. "It's just… I think you hurt his feelings, kid."

"Of course you're taking his side," Sam said, staring angrily ahead. "Everybody takes Dean's side. Because Dean's perfect."

"Sam," Bobby said softly. "No one's taking sides."

"Sure you are," Sam said. "I hurt Dean's feelings. I'm the selfish nerd-bot who wants innocent people to die, but Dean's feelings get hurt so I'm the one that has to apologize."

"Come on, now," Bobby pleaded. "That ain't what he meant."

"Oh yeah?" Sam asked archly, feeling a lump forming in his throat. He turned at last to look at Bobby. "What did he mean then, huh? That I don't care about saving people? That wanting to have a life of my own – one that doesn't involve being scared every day – makes me a bad person?"

Bobby didn't have an answer. He stared at the table for a moment, trying to decide what to say to the very angry and upset young Sam Winchester. He had never had children, and wasn't used to dealing with their adolescent angst or sibling rivalries. The only dealings he had ever really had in the past had been with Dean, and Dean had been so easy to get along with, so non-argumentative and obedient as a child and as a young teen.

"Maybe it don't matter that you're not sorry," he said at last. "Maybe he just needs to hear that it ain't him you wanna leave behind."

He laid a hand on Sam's shoulder, a reassuring touch, a gesture of support, and tucked his manuscript under his arm. Without another word, he left for his lounge chair in the living room, leaving Sam alone at the table with his thoughts. Now that the room was finally quiet and he was finally alone, Sam found he could do little more than stare at the words on the page before him, watching them sear into his eyeballs but not taking in their meaning.

_I am not sorry_, Sam thought as tears began to well up in his eyes. _I am not sorry_.

888

"Thanks for letting me come here to study," Sam said for the tenth time that afternoon. "It was so noisy back at Bobby's I couldn't concentrate for two seconds together."

Deciding to hop on a bus into town to spend some quality study time with Andrea had been the best thing Sam could think to do. Dean was angry with him and had taken off in the Impala to do God knows what. Bobby had buried his face in his manuscript, afraid to talk to Sam in case he sprouted snakes from his hair and turned him to stone with a look. And the oppressive, anxious atmosphere in the house had driven all hope of getting any work done completely out the window. Luckily, Andrea had been all too eager to offer to let Sam come over to her house when he'd called her, so Sam had caught the first bus into town and had made his way there.

"Why, what's going on?" Andrea asked. "Construction or something?"

"No," Sam said. "It's Dean. He's driving me crazy."

"Your brother?" she asked. "Why? What's he doing?"

Sam sighed.

"We just had this big fight this morning," he said simply. "And he stormed off. And of course Bobby took his side, and neither one of them is talking to me now. I just needed to get out of there, I guess."

"How come you didn't tell me he was your brother?" she queried tentatively. "The other day, when we saw him in the Principal's office?"

"Huh?"

"We were talking about how we'd seen him in there a few times and you pretended like you didn't know him," she said.

Sam took a deep breath and sighed again.

"I don't know," he admitted quietly. "I guess sometimes I just wish I could have people look at me and see just me, you know? Without them seeing Dean as my older brother and thinking, _'Oh, he's Dean Winchester's kid brother – he must be trouble!'_"

"So Dean's in trouble a lot?"

"All the time," Sam said irritably. "He's like an ape. He can't spend a single day at school without pissing somebody off. And every time I go to a new school I have to deal with teachers assuming I'm a juvenile delinquent because I'm Dean Winchester's brother."

"That sucks," she admitted. "It's not always fun being Tina Calder's kid sister – she's beautiful and sexy and popular and smart… But everyone thinks she's a goodie-two-shoes. So I don't ever get picked on by teachers or anything."

"Must be nice," Sam muttered.

"And your dad?" Andrea asked. "I guess he's away a lot? Is that why he can't keep Dean in line?"

Sam laughed mirthlessly.

"Dad?" he scoffed. "According to Dad, Dean can do no wrong. Dean is perfect. You know, Dean has been suspended from school seven times and has never once been grounded?"

"What?" Andrea asked, completely dumbfounded. "You're kidding!"

"I'm not," Sam said emphatically. "Dean has never been grounded. Dean is a Saint, according to Dad. Dean is the perfect poster-child for angelic goodness and obedience. He's… he's what a son's supposed to be."

"But why?" Andrea asked. "I mean, you're the one who works hard and does well in school and who follows the rules and stuff. Why would he think your brother's the one who's obedient?"

"Ah, well you see, Andrea," Sam explained, "at home Dean is like a robotic little soldier who does everything he's told without question. Dean follows Dad blindly – never questions anything, no matter how dangerous or stupid the hunt is."

"Dangerous?"

Sam winced, realizing too late that he had said too much.

"What would be dangerous?" she asked. "And what would you be hunting?"

"Hunting?" Sam asked awkwardly, grasping for a story, any story, that would sound plausible. "Right. Well, Dad's a hunter. He hunts… criminals! …. Because he's a bounty hunter."

"A bounty hunter?" she said in awed tones. "Your dad is a bounty hunter?"

Sam nodded solemnly.

"Yup," he said. "He hunts down criminals – which is why he has to leave town so often – and catches them and takes them to jail."

"And he brings your brother along?" she asked, visibly confused.

"It's sort of like a family business," Sam explained lamely. Though the more he thought about it, the bounty hunter story was by far the most plausible lie, and the one that came closest to what they really did, that he could think of.

"And Dean likes it?" she pressed.

Sam nodded.

"And you don't," she supplied.

"I hate it," Sam admitted sadly. "The hours suck. And it's dangerous. And you're always having to deal with… criminals… And sometimes you just wish you could deal with normal people and have a normal life."

"But not Dean," he added. "Dean thinks Dad's a hero, so Dean does whatever Dad does and whatever Dad says. And I'm the jerk because I want to have a life of my own."

Andrea laid a comforting hand on his.

"I don't think you're a jerk," she said, giving him a small, reassuring smile. "I think you're really brave for standing up for yourself, and for going after your dreams."

"Thanks," Sam said.

It felt good to hear, even though she didn't know even half of the truth. It felt good to hear someone say that he was brave, and that it was ok for him to have dreams of his own. Most days he felt like some kind of alien in the Winchester home – like an alien host had infested his body, making him by nature inherently different than his father and brother in every way possible. Knowing that other people had the same kinds of dreams and ambitions that he did, and knowing that they thought he was right to have those dreams and ambitions, made him feel less like an alien and more like a different species of animal. He could deal with being a different animal. To him, Dad and Dean were dogs. And Sam was a cat. So long as he came from planet Earth, he could deal with being a different animal.

"It's too bad that you and Dean don't get along," Andrea admitted thoughtfully. "Tina and I are pretty tight."

Sam paused. The pit in his stomach burned with guilt. He remembered, the lump from this morning reforming in his throat, training in the field with Dean the night before, learning from his big brother how to fight, and felt a surge of regret. He wasn't sure how it had happened, but somehow in his anger and frustration he had completely misrepresented his relationship with Dean to Andrea.

When he really thought about it, it wasn't Dean he was angry with at all. It wasn't Dean's fault that their Dad thought he was perfect. It wasn't Dean's fault that their dad had trained them to be hunters. And it wasn't Dean's fault that their dad had both of their futures as hunters already planned out. Dean just followed along with it because he hero-worshipped the man. It was Dad. All of his anger and hurt was really because of Dad.

"I'd be nothing without Dean," Sam admitted wistfully. "Sometimes I feel like he's the only family I have. It's just… It's hard sometimes."

Andrea smiled and nodded her understanding, but Sam knew she couldn't possibly have the foggiest idea what he really meant. Still, it felt good to know that she wanted to understand. And for now, that was enough.


	5. Chapter 5

Warning: Underage drinking and mayhem. Things get a little sexy, but in a vague and tasteful (I hope) kind of way.

888

Oppressive silence hung over the room like a cold wet blanket. Dean tried to focus, tried to force his attention span to remain intact for more than five seconds at a time, but everything was so damned quiet. A woman at a desk behind him continued to clear her throat, coughing tenaciously but never quite managing to dislodge the phlegm. He wanted to shout to her to drown herself in some ipecac so he could read in peace without losing his mind, but realized it would be both rude and irrational. To his right, an elderly gentleman sucked on a cough drop, clacking it against his teeth and sucking back the sweetness loudly, the sound of gushing saliva so loud in Dean's ears he had to suppress a gag. A spindly librarian passed by with a trolley of books, the back wheel squealing plaintively for want of grease.

_You call Sam a nerd-bot and yet here you are at the library on a Saturday_, he told himself. But this was hunting research. It wasn't nerdy or at all brainy to have your nose stuck in a book on one of the two school-free days in the week if the book you were reading related to a hunt. He told himself that and it made him feel better.

The truth was, he didn't want to research any of this stuff at Bobby's house. It was private and personal; and he knew the moment that he cracked a book open to do some independent research, someone would notice and would enquire, and would take an interest. And then they'd want to know why he was researching it – which would, he knew, cause him to die of mortification. No, discretion was the only way to approach this particular subject of research. He would read up on it alone, and if it turned out to be hunt-worthy, he would handle it on his own.

But it turned out the public library didn't have much resource material on spirits, demons, or creatures that hover over peoples' beds to have sex with them while they slept. He was able to find an article on literary representations of female sexual aggression – which dealt with demonic sexual creatures as metaphors for female sexuality – but that hardly helped. Metaphor sneaky sex spirits weren't what he was looking for.

Another book, a very old compilation of seventeenth-Century sermons, talked of succubi and incubi as being tempters who lure their victims to eternal damnation. That, too, didn't help, as it was vague on the details of how these creatures operated, and it focused so heavily on the notion of sin and damnation instead. Dean wasn't worried about the sin part – if having sex damned ones soul, he had already earned himself a ticket to Hell. He didn't need a succubus for that.

After wasting most of the morning, and a large chunk of the afternoon, Dean eventually gave it up as a lost cause and decided to return to Bobby's. He'd have to just wait until he had a private moment to go through some of Bobby's books. Then he could find out what the dreams meant (if they meant anything) and could deal with it.

When he arrived back at Bobby's house, it was to find the middle-aged hunter still sitting in the old lounge chair, the same ancient manuscript resting on his lap. Sam didn't appear to be around.

"Hey Bobby," Dean said in greeting as he took a seat on Bobby's lumpy old sofa. "I uh – I'm sorry about earlier. Losing my temper and storming off like that."

"You don't gotta apologize to me, kid," Bobby assured him. "I'm just glad to see you've settled down."

"Yeah," Dean said absently. "So where's Sam?"

"Took off to study with some girl," Bobby replied.

Dean shook his head in wonder.

"And the sad part about that is – he's probably actually studying with her."

Bobby laughed.

"You're probably right," he said. "But you can't fault the kid for havin' his dreams."

Dean sighed heavily.

"No, I can't," he admitted.

They sat in silence a moment, neither feeling the need to speak further, but Dean thought he could feel Bobby's eyes on him. He turned to look and, sure enough, the old hunter was watching him, patiently observing him.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "I feel like I'm sitting for a portrait Bobby – what is it?"

Bobby shook his head.

"Nothin'," he said casually. "Just, whenever you're ready to say what's been on your mind these last coupl'a days, you lemme know."

And with that, he pulled himself out of his chair with a plaintive groan and headed into the kitchen to refill his coffee cup. Seizing the sudden opportunity, Dean quietly made his way to the wall of bookshelves across the room and scanned the spines quickly, searching for any titles that jumped out at him:_ Mysteries of Medieval Europe, Spells and Symbols: A Comprehensive Guide to Safety in Witchcraft, Nightstalkers, Plyny's Guide to Creatures Great and Small, Hexes or Hoaxes, _the_ Necronomicon_, several Latin texts that Dean couldn't read, over a dozen that had no writing on the spines at all… He didn't know where to start, though the _Nightstalkers_ title looked promising.

At the sound of Bobby's returned footsteps on the floor, Dean promptly shied away from the bookshelf and pretended to be very interested in the newspaper that was sitting on the side table. He didn't have to pretend to be interested for long. The headline on the front page immediately drew his attention: "Small Town Baffled by Local Death." It was one of the mystery deaths that the Masons were investigating.

"Hey Bobby," Dean called. "What do you think of that hunt that the Masons are on? You think it's spook-worthy?"

Bobby settled back into his chair, gulping a hot sip of coffee, and shrugged.

"Probably," he said. "Might just look into it myself."

"Well, if you need any help," Dean prompted.

Just then the phone rang. Dean scanned the room for any sign of it, but it appeared to be buried somewhere amidst the stack of books and papers strewn about the room.

"Under the Demonology book," Bobby called, not bothering to get up.

Seeing it sitting on the table not two feet away, huge, heavy, and dusty, Dean sprung forward, shoved the book aside, and grabbed the phone.

"Hello?"

[Pause] _You're not Bobby._ A female voice.

"Nope, this is Dean. How can I help you?"

_Dean? Well that works out then, doesn't it? You're the one I was calling for._

"Who is this?"

_It's Jessie. Jesus, you met me just yesterday and already you forget the sound of my voice? Hurts a girl's feelings, Dean._

"Uh-huh." Dean had a sneaking suspicion he was being goaded here. "So I'll ask again, how can I help you?"

_Well_… [Pause] _You can start by getting your ass over to my motel room._

He really hadn't been expecting that.

"What?" He coughed uncomfortably. "Why?"

[Laughing] _Because I have the place to myself for the whole weekend and I'm having a party. I snagged my dad's credit card and rented out the two rooms next door, too._

Dean felt himself blanching at the very idea of stealing from his dad and throwing a massive party at a motel while his dad was off on a job.

"I don't know," he said hesitantly. "That's some heavy crime, snaggin' your dad's car and throwin' a big bash while he's out of town…"

_Oh I forgot._ [Pause] _You don't step out of line with your daddy. 'Cos you're a good little soldier._

Dean frowned.

"I am not," he insisted. "I just don't think that…"

_Forget I asked. I'd heard the rumours that Dean Winchester was a killer on the field and a kitten on the hearth_. _Turns out they're true._

Where was she getting this crap?

"You know what? Screw you," Dean snapped. "You don't know me."

[Laughing] _Then prove it. Get your ass over here and party with me. We won't be the only hunters' kids here, so don't worry about it. [Pause] It's just that I saw you out there last night grappling with your brother, and I was kinda thinking maybe you could come over here and grapple with me_. [Long pause] _You still there?_

"What time?"

888

He had expected his old friend to try to talk him out of it, but Bobby had been surprisingly supportive. _Watch out for yourself with that one_, he had warned. _She's a special kind of trouble_. But Dean was fairly certain he could handle it. It would be good to get out, particularly if there was a chance he might get lucky. And besides, with other hunters' kids there, he'd be hanging out with other people like him. This party could turn out to be a lot of fun.

"Drink to my health, will ya?" Bobby asked kindly, giving Dean a friendly pat on the shoulder and handing him an unopened bottle of Jose Cuervo. "And if you're gonna make yourself sick offa this stuff, make sure the person you're doin' body shots off of is all kinds of pretty."

Dean beamed.

"You know I will, Bobby."

Twenty minutes later Dean was pulling up outside of the Motorway Motel, a lonely single-storey building immediately off the highway, its green roof and gables faded and looking almost black in the dim light of a nearby streetlamp. He had barely turned off the engine, her loud purring rumbling to a stop, when he heard the music.

Rooms 7, 8, and 9 were filled with people coming in and out, drinks in hand, laughing merrily, some of them swaying on their feet. Dean made his way to the patio, which stretched along in front of the motel like a kind of boardwalk, and tried to decide which room to enter first. 8 sounded good, since it was the one dead-centre. He peeked his head inside.

It was a haze of smoke and bodies and the smell of alcohol. A large stereo set on the floor behind the bed closest to the window was blaring David Bowie. Some of the people here looked to be barely above Sam's age, while others were at least in their early 20s. Dean saw a familiar face and headed towards it.

"Gary!" he called gruffly.

A short, burly young man with dark brown hair and a goatee looked up, bleary-eyed, from a frosty mug of beer and smiled toothily.

"As I live and breathe!" he hollered. "Dean Winchester!"

They hugged in a very manly way, clapping each other on the back loudly, and parted.

"How you doin' kid?" Gary asked. "I haven't seen you since… God, it must have been Chicago, two years ago?"

"Yeah, the poltergeist!" Dean said.

"Man, I thought that thing was going to rip me in half," Gary remembered fondly.

"And would have to," Dean agreed, "if I hadn't saved your sorry ass. How's your uncle?"

"Hunting, same as always. How 'bout you? How's your dad? And Sam?"

Dean forced a smile.

"Same," he said. "Dad's on a hunt. Sam's… Well, he's Sam."

The conversation quickly steered away to more mundane things as a couple of people joined them. Dean was happy to note that there were a number of extremely hot chicks here at this party, though he still hadn't seen any sign of Jessie, and after an hour and a half of socializing, and an uncounted number of tequila shots, those hot chicks only seemed to get hotter.

Eventually Dean decided that it was time to check out the other rooms. Jessie had invited him, after all, and it wouldn't do to spend the entire night without at least saying hi. He smiled to himself at his lame attempt at rationalizing wanting to see her. Had she not implied an invitation to have sex? He was fairly certain she had. Still, he felt less like of a creep when he pretended he was being polite and social.

Door number two, he thought as he poked his head into room 7. She was here. Her pixie short blonde hair stood out in the room, which was a good thing because she was so short she was easily lost in the crowd of taller people. A group of guys and two other girls were crowded around almost in a circle on the beds, deep in conversation. Dean walked in, waiting for her to notice him before saying anything.

"You made it!" she called, smiling warmly. She looked only slightly tipsy.

"Hey!" Dean replied, his smile lingering with the onset of inebriation. "I made it."

"Everyone this is Dean," she said to the room at large.

"Hi, Dean," a few of them called.

"Winchester?" a robust-looking fellow on the end of the first bed said.

"In the flesh," Dean replied, trying not to slur.

"Aaron Chisholm," he said, extending a hand and giving Dean's a hearty shake.

Dean had to think about it for a minute.

"Chisholm… Chisholm… How do I know that name?"

"Our dads did a few jobs together back in the day," he explained. "Doug Chisholm?"

"Right!" Dean said, realization dawning on him. "Doug Chisholm. I met him a month or two ago on a job in Houston."

"That's right," Aaron said. He shook his head emphatically. "My dad said you took out a Skinwalker all by yourself – and got him out of a nasty spot of trouble to boot."

Dean pretended to be modest.

"Well," he said hesitantly. "I don't like to brag."

Jessie laughed. "Of course he does."

It was strange to be in a room full of people who knew about hunting, or were actively involved in it, talking about killing monsters and banishing spirits as if this kind of thing was normal – like standing around the water cooler in an office discussing paper jams and toner levels in the photocopier. Hunters generally worked alone, preferring the solitary, lone-warrior existence to any kind of coordinated group efforts. It was rare that they worked together, and when they did it usually meant that the hunt was big. But their kids, it seemed, enjoyed each others' company. Dean knew he did.

"So who do you think would win in a fight?" Jessie asked of the room at large. They had been talking about war injuries, comparing scars and fracture nightmares, when Jessie threw out her question.

"Dean, or Aaron?" she asked.

"Aaron," the redhead to Jessie's right replied instantly. She shrugged innocently at Dean's arched eyebrow. "Sorry man, but he's bigger than you."

"No way," Aaron corrected her. "Winchester here would have my ass on the floor in three seconds."

"We could test that theory," Jessie suggested wickedly. "There could be oil or mud of some kind involved."

The girls all laughed.

"No thanks," Aaron insisted. "I'm not getting in the ring with this one."

Dean could feel his cheeks burning.

"Dude, I'm flattered."

"And military trained," Aaron said pointedly.

"Oh that's right," a pretty brunette said thoughtfully. "Your dad's an ex-marine, isn't he?"

Dean nodded, burping sluggishly.

"That's so cool," she said, wide-eyed and awed. "My dad had us all take these lame self-defence classes, but I still suck at fighting. I could make a work of art from five hundred feet with a gun, but I suck at fighting."

Dean smiled almost dreamily as the conversation continued on the topic of guns.

888

It was quiet without Dean around. Sam had exhausted the last of his zeal for studying and settled into the living room, lounging uncomfortably on Bobby's lumpy old couch, with nothing to occupy his time. Bobby didn't have a TV, so that was obviously out of the question. And he'd been reading all day, so he wasn't particularly interested in poring over another book, even if it was to read for pleasure. So Sam found himself on the couch, listening to the radio and watching Bobby read.

God it was quiet without Dean around. He thought about their fight earlier that morning and hoped that Dean wasn't still angry. Probably not. He was usually pretty quick to let things go with his family, especially with Sam. But Sam made a mental note to keep his eyes extra wide and dewy the next time he saw Dean, just in case. Dean was helpless against him when he looked at him wide-eyed.

The phone rang.

Sam got up, seeing that Bobby was still buried in his books, and answered it.

"Hello?"

_Sam._ [Dad sounded angry] _Put Dean on the phone, please_.

"Hey Dad, nice to finally hear from you. How are you doing? We're doing great. School's good…" Sam said in a falsely pleasant and conversational tone.

_Look son, I don't have time for this right now. Just put your brother on the phone._

Sam squirmed anxiously.

"Well actually," he lied, "Dean can't come to the phone right this second. Can he call you back?"

[Pause] _Where's your brother, Sam?_

"He's around," Sam lied. "He's just… busy. He'll call you right back."

Sam could tell by the irritated sound of their dad's voice that John was in a bad mood, and he knew that when he realized Dean wasn't home his mood would get worse. He generally had this expectation that Dean would be there at his beck and call, and when he wasn't, barring death or grievous injury, he tended to get very pissy.

_Put Dean on the phone NOW._

Bobby snatched the phone from Sam's hand.

"John! What can I do for you?"

He paused, listening.

"Yeah, sorry about that, Sam thought Dean was upstairs." He paused again. "Dean's not here. No. No, I sent him out for the night. Told him to go out and have a good time."

He grinned wickedly at Sam. Sam bit his bottom lip gleefully and smiled back. There would be no way for John to blame Dean now without looking like an unreasonable ass. And because they were staying with Bobby, there was also no way that John could tell Bobby off for it, either. Well, almost no way.

"I gave the kid the night off," Bobby explained calmly. "Cos he spent the whole day at the library and I thought he could use a break. Yes on a Saturday." He paused again. "Well is there anything _I_ can help you with, John? I realize of course that I'm old and feeble and my mind ain't quite what it used to be, but… [Pause] Sure thing. I'll check right now."

Sam couldn't stop grinning as he listened to Bobby politely antagonize his dad.

888

The party members had dwindled to a handful. Dean sat on the bed in room 9, his head spinning, and listened to the pretty brunette talking about something. The tequila bottle in his hand was dwindling sadly, but he doubted he would last much longer to have time to finish it anyway. It was difficult to pick out the sound of any one voice at a time, so the conversation became a kind of constant buzz. He listened, his lids drooping, and licked his lips, forcing himself to concentrate. He wished he could remember her name.

A hand tugged on his sleeve and he turned, almost tipping over when he did so, to see Jessie's blue eyes looking down at him.

"We want to do some shots," she said, indicating the bottle of Jose in Dean's hand. "Come on."

Dean followed numbly, the brunette trailing closely behind him, still talking about something. They made their way into room 8 and Jessie closed the door behind them, locking it. Dean took in the sight of the row of lime wedges on the table, the container of salt, and the shot glass. This was going to kill him. It was then that he noticed that he, Jessie, and the brunette – who was _still_ talking – were the only ones in the room.

"Is this it?" he slurred.

"It's enough," Jessie said, swaying slightly on the spot. She appeared to be one of those lucky few who became energized by alcohol, rather than being doused and stupefied by it like Dean was now.

"You know I told Bobby that I was only going to do body shots off of hot chicks," Dean mumbled. "But I've just been drinking straight from the bottle."

He smiled roguishly, wobbling slightly.

"Let me fix that for you," Jessie said, pulling her shirt over her head in one swift movement. Dean took in the sight of her, petite and white-skinned in her lacy black bra, and smiled appreciatively. This definitely qualified as a hot chick.

She took the salt in her hand and sprinkled some on her chest.

"What about her?" Dean asked cautiously, pointing in the direction of the brunette.

"Nancy's fine," Jessie assured him, placing her hands behind his neck and leading him toward her.

He was tentative, licking the salt off of the tender flesh under her collarbone delicately, gently, and she was ready with the shot glass when his head came up and his green eyes met hers. He swallowed, making a face, and bit into the lime wedge.

Jessie's blue eyes burned into him, and he could feel the humming begin to vibrate through his body, pulsating through his head.

"My turn," she whispered, tugging his shirt away from his belt and pulling it over his head. She took his arm in her hand, extending it toward her, and sprinkling the salt into the crook of his elbow. Her tongue slowly stole its way across his skin, sending waves of sensation shooting through him.

As if in response to this, he suddenly felt hands on his chest, from behind, and lips on the back of his neck. Nancy? His eyes rolled back in his head at the feel of those lips as they made their way along his neck, toward his jaw. He heard Jessie inhale sharply as she choked down the shot of tequila and bit into a lime wedge. Then her lips were on his, stealing the breath from his lungs.

The hands on his chest pressed firmly against him, tugging at him, leading him backward. Jessie followed, walking on his feet on tiptoes to reach him as they kissed. His calves hit the mattress of the bed and the hands, Nancy's hands, pulled him back, knocking him on his ass on the bed.

Jessie smiled breathlessly at him, looking down at him with slightly parted lips, panting with need. She straddled him, her legs spread around his, and began kissing him again.

It was a good thing that this was the awesomest thing in the world, because Dean knew he couldn't have said no. He had no will of his own – his body responded to the touches and the kisses while his mind swam in a complete fog. He couldn't even think. There was no reality beyond this room, beyond these bodies. The only thing that existed was the flesh, the sensation, the agonizing ecstasy. He no longer knew or cared where he was.

Nancy's fingers grazed tantalizingly along his chest, tickling, stroking, teasing him to distraction. He angled his head sharply to the left and her lips met his, while Jessie busied herself with the button on his jeans, and then his zipper. He groaned into Nancy's mouth when Jessie's hand stole its way to that most tender and sacred of places.

The world swam.

888

Something was pounding. He tried to move, but his body didn't want to obey. He was lying flat on his stomach, his faced mashed into a pillow, while something heavy draped across his back. The world was spinning violently, making him want to retch, so Dean tried to remain absolutely still. He took in a long slow breath through his nose, letting it out through his mouth.

The taste in the back of his throat was a mixture of bile and tangy alcohol. He suppressed a gag, raising a trembling hand to his forehead to banish the pounding in his skull. He wanted to die.

More pounding. He couldn't make sense of the noise. He couldn't make sense of anything. Where was he?

He opened his eyes and saw short blonde hair, and for one hysterical moment thought he was lying next to a dude. But the exposed, bare shoulder peeking out at him from under the sheets was delicate, petite, and obviously feminine. He sighed in relief, wondering idly who the hell he had just spent the night with.

The groan from his back nearly gave him a heart attack. Something moved, he felt the skin pull with a strange squelching sound as flesh was pulled from flesh. Someone was lying draped over his back, he could see long brown hair now.

_Oh. My. God._

The pounding continued, growing louder, sounding suddenly closer. Dean raised himself ever-so-slightly onto one elbow, trying to figure out what that sound was, but instantly regretted it as pain cracked over his skull like the dull strike of a hammerhead. Hot naked chicks notwithstanding, he intensely wished that he could die.

The pounding was becoming more insistent. There were voices outside.

"Jessie," Dean croaked, hoping he was right. "Jessie!" He nudged her feebly, trying to rouse her. His head felt like it was splitting in two.

"Come on, somebody wake up," he muttered, cold dread washing over him at the sound of a key in the lock.

"Told them to keep it down or I'd call the cops," a voice was saying, "But then everything died down at around 3 am. I'm sure your daughter's fine."

The door opened.

"Crap," Dean whispered to himself.

"What the HELL?"

The brunette – Nancy? – on his back stirred, lifting her head and groaning loudly.

Dean could vaguely make out the large, lumbering form of a dark man in a thick red plaid sweater. He stood with his fists at his sides, hands trembling – he hoped not with rage – and took a tentative step into the motel room.

"What. The. Hell. Is. This?"

_Please wake up! Pleasewakeup! Pleasewakeup!_

Dean knew, without a doubt, that today was going to be the worst day of his life as he looked into the eyes of an irate hunter.

888

Sam finished the last few bites of his cereal and wondered idly where Dean was. He hadn't heard him come home last night, and the Impala wasn't in the driveway, so he was pretty sure he was still out. He hoped that Dad didn't call this morning, because if he did and Dean was still out, he would definitely be pissed. Socializing because Bobby told him to was one thing: staying out all night and doing God-knows-what was another. Dad wouldn't like it.

Just then he heard the tell-tale rumbling of the Impala coming up the driveway, followed by the sound of another car engine that Sam didn't recognize. He quickly got up from the table and skipped over to the kitchen window to take a look. There was a rusted old orange truck parked behind the Chevy, and an angry-looking bearded man in a red sweater came stalking out of the truck.

The door to the Impala creaked open and Sam craned his neck to try to catch a glimpse of Dean, who seemed to be moving very slowly. The man stormed to the driver's side and reached in, dragging Dean from the car. Sam gasped.

"Bobby!" he shouted, fear welling up inside him. "Bobby come quick!"

Bobby's footsteps could be heard thumping down the stairs in response to Sam's cry, just as a fist hammered against Bobby's front door.

"Winchester!" the man boomed, pounding on the door again. "John Winchester, I wanna talk to you!"

Bobby opened the door, and Sam crept quietly up behind him, wanting to get a look at Dean to make sure he was ok. He could see the large man standing, his chest heaving with anger, with one hand clenched tightly around the front of Dean's shirt. Sam was able to steal a quick glance at his brother, who was so pale he looked green, and whose left cheek, right around the eye, was red and swelling.

"Where the hell is John?" the man barked.

"He ain't here," Bobby said, shocked. "Wendell, what the blazes has gotten into you?"

"I come to speak to him about his son," Wendell said venomously. "And to tell him to keep his filthy kid the hell away from my daughter!"

Bobby looked at Dean, who met his gaze only for a second before staring determinedly at the floor, and then looked again at Wendell.

"Take your hands off the boy," Bobby said calmly. "And tell me what happened."

He looked calm, and he sounded calm, but Sam could see his hand twitching toward his back jeans pocket. Sam casually walked toward the couch, knowing to get as far away from this scene as possible in case things got ugly.

Wendell released his grip on Dean's shirt with a shove, knocking Dean forward several paces. Dean stepped inside the house wordlessly, waiting beside Bobby, waiting for the world to end. Sam gave his big brother a reassuring smile, but Dean wasn't looking his way.

"I want to talk to John," Wendell said stubbornly. "Let me talk to John, or so help me I will pound that boy's face into the pavement until there is nothing left."

"You need to calm down," Bobby said icily. "I already told you, John ain't here."

"Then call him!" Wendell bellowed. "Call him now!"

Bobby looked at Dean, as if to get confirmation from him on what he should do, but Dean's gaze was fixed on the floor. He appeared to be leaning against the wall for support. Instinctually, and without thinking at all about what he was doing, Sam crossed the room again and joined his brother, laying a reassuring hand on his back. He could feel him shaking.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean whispered sadly, giving him a weak smile and then returning his pathetic gaze to the floor.

Bobby went to the table where the phone was and dialled John's cell number. Sam watched as Dean's fists clenched reflexively. He closed his eyes as if willing his dad not to answer.

"John," Bobby said.

Dean opened his eyes. His bottom lip trembled slightly.

"Everything's fine," Bobby said wearily. "It's just that – "

Wendell had crossed the room and snatched the phone from Bobby's hand.

"John Winchester?" he growled. "Wendell Parker here." He paused, listening. "I'm sure you're all kinds of busy with that hunt in Cleveland, but I gotta talk to you about something a little bit closer to home." He paused again. "About taking care of the business on your own doorstep before you run off taking care of business elsewhere!"

They could hear John's angry voice through the phone even across the room.

"I'm talking about your son!" Wendell bellowed. "That hot-headed, no-good skirt-chasin' son of yours! Gettin' girls drunk at parties and takin' advantage of 'em!"

Sam looked up at Dean. _Is this true?_ his eyes said. Dean shook his head. _He's got it wrong_.

"I don't know what kind of crack parenting job you run at home, but my kids know better than to go running around… [Pause] Well she took a bus… [Pause] She only went because Jessie Mason was there… [Pause] Well this ain't about Nancy!"

Whatever their dad was saying, it was leaving Wendell Parker feeling flustered.

"What kind of depraved, sick individual… [Pause] Two girls, John! Two of them! I found 'em in bed together, all three of 'em, naked as jays! And my _daughter_… [Pause] She's not that kind of girl!"

Sam looked up at Dean again, whose head was leaning against the wall now, pressing into it as though attempting to pass through it. A single tear snuck down Dean's cheek, along the side of his nose, and he sniffed as he chewed anxiously at the inside of his top lip.

Bobby had had enough.

He took the phone from Wendell and gave him a dark glare, pulling his ear away in shock at the volume John was projecting on the other end.

"Whoa, take it down a notch or two, John," Bobby said calmly. "It's Bobby." He pointed at the door, gesturing towards it to indicate to Wendell that he wanted him to leave now.

Wendell did not argue, and stalked away from the phone in a huff, glad to have spoken his peace, but still visibly angry. He paused at the front door, casting one last scathing look at Dean, and turned on a heel, slamming the front door behind him as he left. Sam could hear Bobby talking to their dad on the phone, but his attention was riveted on Dean, who continued to stare ahead dejectedly. They both knew their dad was going to kill him.

Bobby coughed awkwardly.

"Uh, Dean," he called quietly. "Your daddy wants to talk to you for a minute."

Dean seemed to shrink as he peeled himself away from the wall and made his way toward the table. He reached out with a shaky hand and lifted the phone to his ear. He didn't even have to speak: John knew he was there.

Dean swallowed hard, listening.

"Yes sir… [Pause] Yes sir…" He cleared his throat. "No. No sir." He sniffed loudly, still biting at his lip. "Ye-yes sir."

Then he hung up the phone and went upstairs without a word, closing the door to his room.

"So I guess your brother had fun last night," Bobby said awkwardly.


	6. Chapter 6

Sam wasted no time retrieving the bucket and making his way up the stairs to help out his grossly hung-over brother. He gave a gentle rap on the door, and when he received no reply, he opened it a crack. He could see Dean lying sprawled on his stomach on the bed, fully clothed, boots and all, with his head almost leaning over the side. Sam made a mad dash for the side of the bed, plunking the bucket on the floor beneath Dean's face just in time.

The splashing of vomit into the bucket forced Sam to turn away – he held his breath, willing himself not to inhale the stale-alcohol-and-bile fumes. His eyes watered from trying not to gag.

"Oh God I wanna die," Dean moaned piteously, dragging a pale hand sluggishly across his mouth. Sam handed him the wet cloth he'd brought and he accepted it with a sigh of relief.

"He hates me Sammy," he slurred. "He freakin' hates me."

"Who hates you?" Sam asked, thinking that Dean was probably still a little drunk from the night before.

"Dad!" Dean cried. "He thinks I'm a big disappointment!"

Sam might have been tempted to laugh at his brother's misery if he didn't look so dejected and pathetic. But hung-over Dean was only funny when the misery was entirely physical. And right now, Sam knew that Dean was in agony of a different kind.

"He doesn't hate you," Sam assured him, sitting next to him on the bed.

"He does!" Dean insisted. "He should just trade me for a well-trained Rottweiler and be done with me!"

He heaved into the bucket again, breathing heavily and moaning about how he wanted to die. Sam laid a reassuring hand on Dean's back, rubbing in a circular motion to help soothe the sickness. It was what Dean used to do for him when he was a kid whenever he threw up.

"Ok," Sam mused. "Then what should Dad trade _me_ for?"

"Carrier-pigeon," Dean mumbled.

They shared a silent chuckle before Dean leaned further over the bed to retch some more, hacking loudly. Sam turned his head away, thinking of minty cold things and resuming the steady circular rubbing along his brother's back.

"I mean seriously, dude, what the hell is wrong with me?" Dean asked when he had composed himself. "Why can't I ever just get it right? I knew there were going to be other hunters' kids there, I knew if things went south word would get back to Dad… It's like I'm retarded or something."

"Well I didn't want to be the one to say it," Sam teased. "But seriously Dean, this isn't the end of the world. So you went to a party and got drunk. Big deal. Dad'll get over it."

"I don't know, Sammy," Dean said wearily. "I've ruined our family's reputation. I've… besmirched… sullied…" He raised a bleary eye to his brother. "A better word?"

"Tarnished?" Sam suggested.

"Yeah," Dean said, smiling and sighing. He was definitely still drunk. "I'm a ruiner and besmircher and sullier and tarnisher of the Winchester name."

"Dude, did you just get possessed by a dictionary?" Sam asked with a laugh. "What's with all the synonyms."

"I have many layers," Dean sighed into the pillow, drifting off for a moment.

"So was it worth it?" Sam asked, glad to see that Dean was still with him when he opened one eye in acknowledgement of the question. "The tequila and the threesome?"

Dean smiled dreamily. "As soon as I remember it, it'll all be so worth it."

Then he passed out.

888

Sam waited a few more moments, watching as his brother's frame eased into sleep on the bed, before leaving. He made a quick stop in the bathroom to wash his hands, thinking with a pang how glad he was that Dean was still a little drunk. It was the only reason he had been so forthright about his feelings and Sam knew it. Any other time Dean would have choked those feelings back, hid them behind a cocky smile or a witty comment, and would never have opened up to him about what he was really feeling. And even though it broke his heart to hear it, Sam was still grateful for it.

Bobby was sitting in his chair again with yesterday's newspaper spread out across his lap. He looked up expectantly when Sam entered the room.

"How's he doin?"

Sam sighed.

"I think he turned himself inside out," he said. "But he'll be fine."

Bobby nodded.

"Poor kid," he muttered.

_Poor kid_, Sam thought. They were both poor kids. Poor Dean for being brainwashed by Dad to do and say exactly what he's told all the time, for being dragged all over the country and hunting dangerous creatures but never getting any praise or thanks, for having no real life at all outside of this family and the job, and for getting chewed up and spat out by Dad for doing what kids do by screwing up once in a while. Poor Dean.

_And what about me?_ Sam wondered angrily. Poor me for being dragged out of every place I've ever felt happy to go on some life-threatening hunt, for having to work twice as hard as all the other kids at school to stay caught up because we're running around all the time, at odd hours, in seedy motel rooms or squatting in abandoned buildings, for having no say in my own future and for being treated like some kind of pariah for wanting to choose a different life. Poor me.

Poor us.

Before he knew it, he was reaching for the phone. He was dialing Dad's cell number. The heat was rising up his face, burning in his cheeks, and he had to swallow hard to choke back the rage pounding in his ears.

"Dad."

888

The knife probably couldn't be any sharper. It glinted, pristine and silver, shapely and lethal, the cold, smooth handle now warmed by his palm. He didn't know how long he had been sitting there, absently, rhythmically running the blade along the sharpening stone, but the vein in his forehead was still throbbing madly when he finally set his tools aside with a sigh. He had to keep his mind on the job. The stakes were too high. It was foolish to allow this morning's events to distract him from the important task at hand. Lives were at risk. People were counting on him.

_I don't know what kind of crack parenting job you run at home_… John heard it in his mind, ringing in a chorus over and over and over again. _I don't know what kind of crack parenting job you run at home_. His skills as a father called into question, by Wendell Parker of all people – Wendell Parker, whose youngest had been nabbed and killed by a damned Rawhead on a hunt four years ago. Wendell Parker, who couldn't keep his own children safe, was accusing him of being a bad parent.

_Damnit Dean._ He could have gone anywhere else, could have partied anywhere else, and it wouldn't have been a blip on the radar. He'd prefer it if Dean could get a handle on his wild ways, especially where girls were concerned, but he understood that sometimes the kid just needed to let loose and be reckless. But partying with Jessie Mason? And doing God-knows-what with a bunch of other hunters' kids? Leaving their family, their reputation, open to the scrutiny of those sanctimonious bastards?

_I don't know what kind of crack parenting job you run at home._

The buzzing in his pocket pulled him from his dark thoughts. He retrieved the cell phone and checked the call display. Bobby's house. He braced himself for another tirade from another angry parent. _If you call me Roy Mason, I swear to God…_

_"Dad."_ It was Sam and he sounded seriously pissed.

"What is it, Sam? Has something happened?"

Sam breathed hard into the phone but didn't reply.

"I don't got all day, Sammy. Say what you wanna say or I'm hanging up."

_"Why do you have to be such a jerk?"_ his youngest son's voice suddenly demanded through the phone.

It took a moment to register.

"Excuse me?" John asked, heat rising in his face.

_"You heard me!"_

"I had better be hearing an apology from you in three seconds," John said, struggling to keep his voice under control. "Or so help me…"

_"Dean thinks you hate him!"_ Sam blurted. He was so agitated he couldn't keep the emotion from his voice.

"Of course I don't hate him," John said gruffly. "Dean knows that."

_"No. He doesn't, Dad."_ Huffing with anger. _"He said he thought you should trade him for a dog!"_

Sam might as well have punched him in the chest with a sledgehammer.

"Dean said that?" It was hard to talk through the constriction in his throat.

_"Yes, he said that. He said that you hate him, that he's a disappointment to you, and that you should trade him for – and I quote – a well-trained Rottweiler."_

Why would Dean say that? How could he even think it? It was absurd and so wholly untrue. Worse than that, it was emotional and self-pitying. Dean saying any such thing would have to mean that he was really upset.

"Your brother's drunk," John supplied, hoping that this was the real reason. "He's drunk and he's being an ass."

But even as he tried to rationalize it, he knew Dean better than that. He'd seen his eldest drunk before, and he wasn't an emotional drunk. As always, he was happy-go-lucky, perhaps more so, when uninhibited by the effects of alcohol.

"Put your brother on the phone," John said, choking back the wave of emotion crashing over him.

_"No."_

"No?"

_"What did you say to him, Dad?"_

"I'm not explaining myself to you, Sam. I don't have to justify my actions to you."

It was insupportable. It was insufferable. Being called out over the phone by his thirteen year-old son for being jerk to his own kid – it brought pain to his chest and a lump to his throat. It was unbearable because it was true.

_"Fine!"_ Sam's voice barked. _"Do and say whatever you like. You're the boss. Go ahead and beat down the one person who trusts you and believes in you – the one person who would follow you into Hell if you asked him to."_

That knifed through his heart.

"Only one person, Sam?"

_"Yes. Sir."_ The reply was so cold John had to stifle a gasp of surprise.

John's hands were shaking. They were actually shaking.

"I'd never ask you to follow me to Hell, son," he forced himself to say, not knowing why he was saying it.

_"Look around, Dad. We're already there."_

888

It was strange to be leaving for school in the morning without Dean. Bobby had agreed to drive Sam in the mornings, and he was to take the bus home, where it would leave him at a stop near the turn-off to Bobby's place. Sam brushed his teeth and thought about how quiet it was without his brother's heavy boots on the floor, his chomping at the breakfast table, his long and arduous tooth-brushing and flossing and gargling routine in the bathroom. Somehow it just wasn't the same.

He grabbed his schoolbag from the banister on his way down the stairs and headed out the door to meet Bobby in the car. He smiled sadly at his brother, who was hunched over the hood of a rusted old Mustang, elbow deep in engine grease. Dean paused in his work to give Sam a polite nod of acknowledgement. The bruise around his eye from where Wendell Parker hit him had darkened to an angry purplish red.

"Make sure to tell them I'm dyin,'" he called, forcing a grin.

"They'll be sending flowers and sympathy cards," Sam replied.

As the car sped away, spitting up bits of gravel from the back tires, Sam cast a sad glance at his brother. Dean was grounded – the first time ever – and was banned from leaving the house for anything that didn't involve a hospital. John Winchester had called the school and told them that Dean had fallen and been sincerely concussed, providing all the necessary medical documents to absent his son from school for the week. For his part, Dean was to be up and at work, helping out around the house or fixing up cars in Bobby's scrap yard, every morning by 6 am. He was allowed one hour break for lunch and was to keep himself busy, being useful or productive, until 8 pm, at which time he was allowed to retire to his room. He would do this for a week and then his punishment would be over.

Bobby had assured Dean that he needn't follow such strict rules, but Dean being Dean, he followed them to the letter. There were to be no phone calls with girls, no going for any kind of drive in the Impala – unless it was to get something for Sam or Bobby (or unless it involved any hospital scenarios). But Dean didn't complain. He set about his work at 6 am with a quiet, determined resolution, dragging his tired body sluggishly through the front door and out into the chill dark October morning, rolling up his sleeves and popping open the hood of a Mustang that looked salvageable. Dean would work at it all day, Sam knew, and he wouldn't complain and he wouldn't be angry. He would do it because he felt he deserved it, and because he thought that their dad was right.

Sam was lost in his thoughts and hardly noticed the streets that passed by his window on the drive to school. Before he knew it Bobby was pulling the car to a stop in front of the bus loading zone.

"Hey, did you know the kids at school call you Spooky Singer?" Sam asked.

Bobby grinned a toothy grin.

"I didn't," he said, his eyes twinkling. "But I do now."

Sam groaned, realizing too late that he had just inspired Bobby to do something that was likely going to be extremely embarrassing.

888

It was his third day at school without Dean, the third day of Dean's grounding, and Sam was finally starting to get into the swing of things. With all of the cramming that he had done on the weekend, and with Dean occupied with work and then exhausted and sleeping when he was done, Sam had managed to get completely caught up on his homework. He was raising his hand in class when his teachers asked questions, he was handing in assignments early and seeing what he could do about extra credit work. Things were settling into a kind of normalcy where he felt like he really belonged. His teachers liked him, he had a few friends, and the rest of the kids his age seemed to at least tolerate him. Life at Harbatkan High was looking good.

"So you should definitely all come over to my house on Friday night," Brody said conspiratorially as he took his seat next to Sam at the lunch table. Tom and Lucy had broken up – news that was only shocking to Lucy and Tom – so the young lady was decidedly absent from the table.

"My dad has this movie," Brody whispered, "and there are naked chicks in it doing all kinds of awesome stuff."

"Like kissing?" Tom asked stupidly.

"More than kissing, numbnuts!" Brody said, scoffing. "We're talking full-force action."

Sam sipped at his Coke and said nothing. His cheeks felt hot and he hoped they weren't flushing pink like they normally did.

"Anyway, my mom and dad are going to some charity auction," Brody said. "And they said I could have a couple of friends over to watch Star Wars."

"Cooooool," Tom said breathlessly.

"We're not going to watch Star Wars," Brody reminded him with forced patience.

"Right," Tom said, nodding.

"So you in, Winchester?" Brody asked Sam.

Sam knew his cheeks were flushing pink now. He could feel it. The truth was he had seen videos like the one Brody's dad owned before. There often wasn't much to do when you were stuck in a cheap motel alone with your brother while your dad was off on a hunt – and though he'd never actively participated in ordering or selecting any of the said adult films, he hadn't looked away when Dean ordered them.

"I'm not sure," Sam said hesitantly. "Maybe. We'll see."

"Why, you got something better than naked chicks?" Brody asked.

"Well I might have plans with Andrea," Sam replied. He hoped Brody's gutter mind wouldn't leap to the bad place he knew it was about to leap to.

"So you might have a naked chick of your own then," Brody intoned greasily. "Atta boy Sammy!"

"It's Sam," Sam corrected. "Anyway, I gotta go. I'll see you later."

_You might have a naked chick of your own_… That was a laugh. _I'm thirteen!_ Sam thought, walking away from the table as quickly as possible. _I'd like to kiss a girl before I start making plans to do…_ that.

He made his way through the cafeteria and decided to go outside. It was a nice day, the mildest they'd had since they got here, and he was in the mood for some fresh air after all the sleaze talk at the table. Brody's constant yammering on about girl-on-girl action conjured horrific images in Sam's mind of Dean with two women at a motel, and a sick twisting feeling in his stomach was making him scream for air. He just needed some air.

He felt instantly relieved when his feet hit the pavement. He milled around the empty basketball court behind the school, listening to the crunching sound of dried leaves under his feet. It was kind of peaceful here, he thought, even with the Dean angst at home, and with the Dad angst abroad. At school Sam felt at ease, at peace. It was a place for him to unwind.

"Hey Winchester!"

Sam turned toward the sound of the voice. It was that jock, Todd something – the one that had gotten in Dean's face last week. He was coming toward Sam now and he wasn't alone. Sam decided he had better leave now. He took a few strides veering to the left to sort of steer himself away from the general path of the oncoming football player, but he was already too close.

"Hey there, hold up!" Todd said, jogging the last few steps toward Sam and reaching out to catch his wrist. "Not so fast there, Winchester."

"What do you want?" Sam asked. But he knew the answer. He knew exactly what Todd wanted and he had to force back the rising panic to think of a plan.

_Know your opponent_, Dean's voice said in his mind. _Use whatever strengths you have to your best advantage, and don't let him get the upper hand._

"Where's that, uh, big tough brother of yours, huh?" Todd taunted. "I heard he was in the hospital or at home or something with a head injury."

Sam stared at him blankly. _What are my strengths? What are his weaknesses?_

"Your daddy knock him around or something?" Todd asked. His football friends laughed.

_Dude, you've got freakishly long legs,_ Dean's voice said. _He doesn't. _ It was true. The linebacker had short, stocky legs.

"So this is your plan?" Sam asked archly. "You can't beat up Dean so you go after a kid four years younger than you and half your size? Wow. That's tough."

"I'm gonna wipe that smirk off your face," Todd threatened, grabbing Sam by the collar of his shirt.

_Make me proud Sammy._

Sam Winchester may have been long and skinny, but he was fast. Just as their dad had taught them long ago, Sam broke the hold that Todd had on his collar with a quick, fluid outward thrust of both wrists from his chest. Then, without pausing, he kicked hard with a side jab into Todd's knee, knocking him to the side with a yelp of pain. Without hesitation and without flinching he kicked again, striking Todd in the chest and sending him toppling backward to the ground.

And much to his surprise and immense pride, he found he was still smirking after all. Unfortunately for Sam, the smirk didn't last long. For while Todd Weston had been willing to step aside when he had been bested by Dean, a boy his age, his pride was far too weak and fragile to concede defeat to a thirteen year-old. He got to his feet, growling in rage, and motioned for his friends to step in to assist him.

Still, Sam knew Dean would have been proud of him.

888

He was only taking a five-minute break. The sun was shining, it was the warmest the weather had been in weeks, and Dean took a few moments to enjoy the feel of the cool breeze against his skin and the warm sun on his face. The car wasn't going anywhere, probably ever, and it could wait a few minutes while he took a breather. He drained the contents of his water bottle in three gulps and squinted against the light of the early afternoon sun. His eye still hurt when he touched it, but the swelling had gone down a lot in the last three days, and it had faded from angry purple to sullen brown.

"Hey Dean!" he heard Bobby's voice calling from the kitchen window. "Dean!"

"Yeah, Bobby?"

"I'm heatin' up some of that stew for lunch if you want some!"

"Ok!" Dean shouted. "Thanks Bobby! I'll be in in a minute!"

Stew was one of the only things Bobby Singer knew how to cook and he made it often, but it was wholesome and hearty and didn't taste like ass, so Dean was glad to have it whenever Bobby announced it was on the night's menu. Today's lunch would be the eighth meal in a row that consisted entirely of stew.

Just then he heard a car crunching along the gravelled driveway. A blue Toyota Tercel was creeping up the drive, cautiously and ever-so-slowly, as though the driver had gotten lost and was afraid to come all the way through to turn around. But as soon as it was close enough he recognized the license plate. It was Tina Calder's car.

She came to a stop when she noticed Dean leaning against the Mustang.

"Hi," she said awkwardly, stepping out of the car and closing the door with a tentative and cautious look around the junkyard. "I heard you were injured and thought I'd come visit you in your sickbed."

She cocked her head to the side and arched an eyebrow questioningly.

"Only you're not in your sickbed."

Dean smiled and licked his lips, biting onto his bottom lip while he considered an appropriate reply.

"The nurses let me out for some air," he said.

Tina closed the distance between them and brushed her index finger against the discoloured blotch of brown on his cheekbone. She took in the sight of his pale skin, starkly contrasted by the black T-shirt and black-stringed necklace that hung around his neck. It had a strange little fishie-looking pendent hanging from it that he seemed to wear everywhere.

"What's this?" she asked, tugging absently at it.

"This?" He held it in his hand and looked at it thoughtfully. "Ah, it's just… somethin'."

She was close, so close she could smell the soap on his skin and the grease from the smudge on his jaw.

"So you decided to take the week off to work on this piece of crap car?" she asked.

"Not exactly," Dean said elusively, taking a delicate but obvious step away from Tina. He could feel the humming in his head starting again, and his knees felt suddenly weak. Keeping a safe distance from her felt like a smart idea.

"I'm grounded," he explained.

"Grounded?"

Dean nodded.

"Grounded from school even?" She was incredulous.

"Grounded from everything," Dean said emphatically. "Apparently when my dad issues a grounding, he goes all out."

Tina laughed and eyed Dean sceptically. It was obvious she thought he was pulling her leg.

"But your dad's out of town," she said. "How does the grounding work if he's not even here?"

Dean shrugged.

"Well he doesn't have to be here to tell me what the conditions of my punishment are."

"But he's not here to know if you're following them or not!" she objected, still laughing. "How would he even know?"

"I'll know," Dean said simply.

She was looking at him now as if he were a lost puppy, her head tilted sideways and her lips pouting.

"You are so adorable I could eat you with a spoon!" She exclaimed, stepping toward him. Dean stepped back.

"And I'll be happy to hand you that spoon," Dean said, "as soon as it's next week."

"You're serious?"

He smiled awkwardly.

"I wish I wasn't."

She huffed in frustration, crossing her arms across her chest. The truth was he looked so edible in his black tee, with those smudges of engine grease painting streaks across his pale flesh, that she wanted to sink the proverbial spoon in now. What she had intended as an innocent visit to check on a cute, sick boy was rapidly turning into a quest for a booty call.

"So what did you do?" she asked, changing tactics.

"Huh?"

"To get yourself grounded? What did you do?"

Dean blushed and began scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck.

"It's a long story," he said with an uncomfortable laugh. "Let's just say it involved loud music, underaged drinking, and way too much tequila."

What she didn't know about the motel room and the two girls and the irate dad couldn't hurt him.

"And now you're stuck at home?" she asked, making a sad face.

"Now I'm stuck at home," he agreed. "My sentence is up on Sunday."

She smiled warmly, glad for the prison metaphor.

"So," she said playfully, biting onto her bottom lip. "Do you get any conjugal visits?"

He took another obvious step back.

"Hey, isn't your lunch hour almost over?"

"I've got a free period," she said coyly, moving toward him. She imagined by the time she actually caught him she'd have chased him completely around the car.

"Well I don't," Dean said. "Look, Tina, you should go. I've got work to do, and you're really not supposed to be here."

"Your dad's not here, he won't know," she assured him, moving closer.

He swallowed hard. His resolve was breaking.

"It's just, he was so mad," he said, almost pleading. "I don't wanna do anything to set him off again. I don't want to betray his trust."

She paused in her chase, feeling concern blossoming within her at what he had just said. She took in the sight of his bruised eye with a more scrutinizing eye of her own.

"Did he do that?" she asked quietly.

"Huh?" Then he realized what she thought, and what she meant, and he nearly fell over himself trying to explain.

"No!" he assured her. "God no! He's not even here, remember? This?… this uh… Well it's also part of the reason I'm grounded. Apparently Dean plus tequila equals barfight."

"Are you lying?" she asked.

"No," he promised. "No, I'm not. Some huge dude in a plaid sweater clocked me."

"And did you clock him back?" she asked, remembering the impressive moves Dean had used to take out Todd Weston in the matter of about three seconds.

"Not exactly," he said. "I more sort of hit the ground and passed out."

Satisfied that he was not being abused by his father, she redoubled her efforts to corner him. There was something about him, standing there in the bright light of the sun, his fair hair tinged with gold, those smudges of grease, and that fresh, raw vulnerability – that was new – that made him irresistible. She had never before felt so bold, had never wanted to push so badly, but the urge had come upon her and it demanded to be satisfied.

"I want you," she said at last, throwing caution to the wind.

He seemed to freeze. His eyes opened wide.

"What did you just say?"

She took advantage of his apparent shock at whatever she had said and moved toward him, closing the distance between them in three long strides.

"And it's no secret that you want me," she said, wrapping her arms around his neck to prevent further attempts at escape.

"Tina, I can't," he said, his eyes closed against the humming that was drowning out all thought. "If you can just wait…"

But she couldn't wait. Her lips were on his, her hands snaking through his hair, before he could finish his sentence.

Dean returned the kiss in kind, already lost to the humming and the burning. His skin was hot to the touch, like living fire. Tina could feel it burning through her, setting her own skin aflame. She could scarce breathe for the heat twisting through her, spreading from her toes, up her legs, swirling and swivelling through her insides, into her chest, her face, her arms. The part of her brain that still worked half-expected her to spontaneously combust.

Dean was lost. The world around him had faded away and disappeared completely. He could have been on a ride at Disney World and would not have noticed. The only thing that existed was the flaming thing that was burning for him and with him and within him. The humming in his brain intensified and changed, suddenly swelling into a vast roaring. If he'd had breath in his lungs he would have cried out against it.

It was the sudden chill, the drop in temperature, the visible puff of condensed breath in the air, that yanked him back to reality. Dean dragged his mind back from the roaring, the burning, the yearning, clawing his way back to the here and now, as the hairs on the back of his neck began to stand on end. He hadn't seen it, he hadn't heard it, and there were no lights to flicker in the arrival of a vengeful spirit, but he knew without a doubt that it was there.


	7. Chapter 7

The chill tingled up his spine, setting off alarm bells in his brain that effectively silenced the humming and doused the flames of his passion. Dean froze, grabbed Tina firmly by the shoulders and pushed her off of him, though still within arm's reach, so that he could take inventory of the situation. Something was here – he could feel its icy presence cooling the air around him, and by the sudden bumps of gooseflesh spreading across Tina's arms, he could tell that she felt it too.

"Whoa, can you feel that?" she breathed, completely unaware that they were in any kind of danger.

A decision had to be made, and fast. Could he send her on her way, banish her to her car and hope that she'd make it out of here without glimpsing or, worse, running into the spirit that had just dropped in on them? Or should he go for broke and fight the damned thing in front of her? The Impala was about a hundred feet away, where he knew he could get his hands on both salt and iron. Bobby's front door was even closer.

He looked around him, his steely green eyes scanning for any sign, any flicker, any form that looked otherworldly, but whatever it was it wasn't showing itself yet. But that chill in the air, that sudden dip in temperature that sent the body into sudden shivers, remained as a warning that the visitor had not left.

"That," Dean said, having made his decision, "is your cue to leave."

He took her by the arm and manually steered her toward her car, looking anxiously over his shoulder for any signs of the ghost. Tina was taken aback by Dean's sudden brusque and detached behaviour, and tried to wrench her arm away from his grasp, but he held firm. He opened her car door for her and waited for her to get inside.

"What the hell's gotten into you?" she asked. Her own fire had obviously been doused, either by the sudden chill in the air, or by the sudden chill in Dean.

"Nothin'," Dean assured her. "I'll see you on Monday. Drive safe."

He closed the door the moment she had tucked her foot into the car, not giving her a chance to reply. She huffed in irritation and put the keys in the ignition, starting the car and driving away muttering 'asshole' loudly enough for him to hear it.

But Dean wasn't paying attention. As soon as he heard the Toyota spark into life he was already on the move, jogging towards the Impala. The closer he got to the car the colder the air became – he could see his breath in puffs on the air. The crunching sound of tires on gravel faded into the distance as Tina drove away, while Dean unlocked the trunk and reached for his trusted iron blade.

He wasn't sure, maybe it was just a gust of wind, but he thought he heard the faintest voice whisper his name. He turned, ready to strike, searching for a sign of life, or non-life as the case may be, but saw nothing.

"Come on," he growled. "Where the hell are you, you bitch!"

"Dean." The voice was right behind him. Dean turned with a start and found he was looking into a familiar face. Standing before him, clad in a heavy flannel jacket and jeans, his blonde hair tucked into a black tuque, was James Mason.

Dean sighed in relief.

"Dude, you nearly gave me a heart attack." He made a move to step forward to take the young man's hand in greeting, but froze when he saw James momentarily flicker.

"Oh crap!" Dean muttered sadly, looking at what he now realized was the ghostly apparition of the very recently deceased James Mason.

"I'm sorry," Dean whispered, completely at a loss for what to do, or what to say. If James was dead – and apparently he was – he couldn't have been dead for very long. With Jessie still in town, they would definitely have gotten a call.

"Uh, look man," Dean said awkwardly. "I'm not sure if you're a death echo, or a restless spirit, or whatever… But you gotta move on, ok?"

James's ghost merely stood there, staring at Dean with an inscrutable expression on his face. He looked sad, and possibly angry, yet somehow vacant at the same time. Dean waited, the iron blade held firmly in his grip, readying himself to strike in case the spirit meant to attack him, but James remained still as stone, still as death.

"What happened to you?" Dean asked, trying to sound compassionate and concerned in spite of his rapidly mounting uneasiness. His instincts were telling him to just run the bastard through and be done with it. But this was a hunter, and a friend of Bobby's. If there was something he could do to help… _Poor Jessie_, Dean thought with a pang.

But James did not reply.

"Where's your dad?" Dean asked.

He was met with only silence.

"What are you doing here? What do you want?"

James opened his mouth as if to speak, but no sound came forth. His face twisted in a soundless scream and he clutched at his chest as if struggling against some unseen, internal agony. He twisted on his feet, writhing in pain, his hands clawing at his chest as the silent scream tore through him. Then the pain seemed to reach a climax as James threw his head back, arching his back in a grotesque U-shape as the pain shot through his ghostly body, until he finally fell forward and went limp.

"Seven," he said, his voice hollow and emotionless.

And then he was gone.

888

"Holy fuck, Bobby!" Dean announced, the brick-shitting fear from the scene outside twisting his stomach in knots.

Bobby was sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a steaming bowl of chicken stew, when Dean's boots thundering across the floor, and his profane exclamation, startled him to the point of dropping his spoon into his bowl.

"What the hell—"

"James Mason is dead," Dean announced flatly.

"Dead?" Bobby asked, immediately getting to his feet. "What happened? Did Jessie call?"

"No," Dean said emphatically. He was trying very hard not to freak out, and pacing helped. "No, no one called. James's ghost just made a fucking house call."

"What?"

"Just now! Just outside! He was just outside, in all his frickin' ghostly glory, flickering in and out of vision."

"But how?" Bobby asked. "And why? Why would he come here?"

"I don't know!" Dean half-shouted. "I only ever met the guy once! Why the hell would he come to show off his frickin' death echo to me, huh?"

"I gotta sit down," Bobby said weakly, but then he remembered himself. "I gotta call Roy!"

Dean waited in the kitchen, continuing his frantic pacing, while Bobby went to the phone to call Roy Mason. Something was very wrong. The hairs on the back of Dean's neck were still standing on end, and he couldn't suppress the feeling that something terrible was about to happen. He tried to push it down to that secret place where all his fears and worries and feelings went – tried to bury it in that hidden cavern within himself so that he could be cool and collected as usual – but this one had unnerved him. Dean Winchester was used to seeking out ghosts and putting their spirits to rest, one way or another. But this was the first time that one had sought him. And he couldn't explain why.

_Seven. _

The sudden appearance of James's ghost, his hideous death-echo, and then that last cryptic message: seven. Dean didn't know what it meant, but he knew that it was some kind of warning. He couldn't ignore the feeling that it was a warning meant for him.

When Bobby finally got off the phone, it was clear to Dean from the look on his face that the news from Roy wasn't good.

"James has been missing for two days," Bobby said wearily. "Roy didn't want to tell Jessie because he was hoping he'd find him."

"So the thing that they were hunting… Whatever it was… You think it got James?"

Bobby nodded.

"Looks like it. Roy said that James saw a death echo of some guy, who he later recognized as one of the victims, some time on Saturday night. Then he just disappeared on Monday."

"Come again?" Dean asked, his stomach fluttering. "You're telling me James saw the ghost of one of the victims before he went missing and bit it himself?"

"Yeah," Bobby said. He gave Dean a sad attempt at a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, kid. We'll figure somethin' out."

"So that gives me, what, two days before I get ganked by a ghost?" Dean demanded. "Super."

"Just hold on to your shorts," Bobby cautioned him. "Don't go makin' your own funeral arrangements just yet. Roy also said that the timing was different with the other victims. The second victim saw the death echo for weeks before he died. And the third one it was at least five days."

"So the time between seeing the ghost and biting it is getting less," Dean supplied darkly. "How does that make me feel better?"

That stopped Bobby up short.

"Well it don't necessarily mean that the time's gettin' shorter, Dean. All we know is that the timing was different for everyone. It could be a month before this thing comes after you."

But then it hit him.

"Seven," Dean whispered. "It's comin' after me in seven days."

Bobby eyed him suspiciously.

"You gonna explain that number," he asked, "or am I just supposed to assume you just opened your third eye for the first time?"

"Outside," Dean explained, trying to breathe calmly through the constriction in his chest. "James's ghost, just before he disappeared… he said seven."

"Seven?"

Dean nodded. "I tried talking to him, you know, to figure out why he was here. It would have felt kinda weird to just salt him… So I asked him what he wanted, why he was here. And he just said seven."

Bobby laid a reassuring hand on Dean's shoulder.

"So we'll start with seven then," he said with a faint smile. "You wanna put on a fresh pot of coffee so we can get into research mode?"

Dean heaved a sigh.

"This frickin' sucks out loud, Bobby," Dean said.

888

He didn't want to go home. With every throbbing step he took, with every sharp, painful inhalation of breath he squeezed through his lungs, and with every beat of his rapidly pounding heart, Sam Winchester did not want to go home. It hurt to breathe, and he was sure large welts had already begun to purple his abdomen from the gang beating he'd received at lunch hour. He could hardly see through his right eye, which had begun to swell shut. The pain in his split lip was a constant, hot throb that stung like a bitch every time he stupidly pinched it in thought. Every muscle was screaming to find a bed and crawl into it for the next decade, but he emphatically, and with every fibre of his being, did not want to go home.

Because Dean was going to go homicidal when he saw him.

The walk from the bus stop took considerably longer than it should have, but it hurt to breathe and Sam couldn't push himself to his regular long-legged stride no matter how hard he tried. The dread that he felt squishing through his guts didn't help to inspire any bursts of energy, either. He found himself slugging along, pausing to catch his breath every so many steps, until he finally made his way to the salvage yard. He rested against a battered old Tempo and did the unthinkable, the unforgiveable, reaching into his schoolbag and pulling out the cell phone his father had given him under the strictest instructions that he was to use it for emergencies only.

And then he called his father.

His hands shook with each ring, and with each ring he contemplated hanging up. But then there was a click, and his father's gruff voice was on the other line, removing any chance of turning back now.

_"Sam? What's happened?"_ The worry in his father's voice, being called from this phone, was immediately apparent.

"We're ok, Dad," Sam said, trying not to wince in pain with the constriction in his chest. "Everything's fine. I just…"

_"What? I thought I told you that phone was only for emergencies, Sam."_

"I know. But Dad…" Now that he had him on the phone he didn't quite know where to begin.

His father sighed loudly in irritation on the other end.

_"If this isn't an emergency I'm hanging up. And the next time I give you instructions about something, I expect them to be followed."_

"Dad, you've got to stop him!" Sam blurted.

_"Stop who?"_

"Dean!" It wasn't coming out at all the way he wanted it to, but he was worried his father was going to hang up on him.

_"Stop Dean from doing what?"_ John's voice was suddenly dangerously low.

"Some guys at school," Sam said in a rush, "they jumped me and… well, it looks really bad – worse than it actually is." The hitch in his breath as he struggled to breathe normally belied this assertion, but he barrelled ahead. "And when Dean sees me he's going to flip and then he's going to kill them."

There was a long pause.

_"Some guys at school hurt you?"_ Miraculously, the voice had gotten dangerously lower.

"Just some football players," Sam explained. "They only did it to piss off Dean. And that's only going to make it worse."

_"If Dean wants to protect you and kick some arrogant ass in the process, I don't see any reason why I should stop him."_ He was actually growling.

"Except that he could actually kill someone," Sam pointed out. "You know how strong Dean is – you've seen the things he's killed. If he were mad enough he could really hurt someone."

He could hear his father huffing in irritation. It really wasn't in his nature to get involved when Dean wanted to kick someone's ass to defend Sammy. In fact, it was generally encouraged.

"Besides, if he kicks the crap out of them he's going to end up being expelled," Sam warned.

His father didn't reply.

"The principal flat out told us that he was looking for a reason to kick Dean out. Dad, you've got to stop him."

"_What do you expect me to do, Sam?"_

"Give him an order," Sam said. "Forbid him from fighting with them. He'll do anything you say."

There was a long pause.

_"How many of them were there?" _

"How many what?" Sam asked, perplexed.

_"Football players. How many were there?"_

Sam heaved a sigh.

"Five," he said.

His father's voice rumbled something incoherent through the phone.

_"Fine."_

"Dad?"

_"I said fine, Sam. I'll give you ten minutes to try to calm him down and then I'll call. Don't let him leave the house until I've called."_

"Ok, Dad."

There was a click and then Sam was left listening to dead air. His father had hung up. It was time to face the music.

888

The rumbling, roiling in his stomach told him that the stew from lunch wasn't sitting well, but Dean pushed those thoughts away as he pored through the book on his lap. Seven, he thought, his eyes darting back and forth across the page. Seven. What could be the significance of the number seven? He wondered if it really was a warning to let him know how long he had left to live before this spirit or monster decided to come gunning for him, or if it meant something else. If it was a warning, he was damned sure he was going to be ready for it. Screw this doubled over in death throws, echo crap. Dean wasn't having any of that. He was going to find out what the hell was after these people, and apparently after him, kill it, and then he was going to celebrate the SOB's death with pizza and beer.

Just as he was contemplating the grim notion of salting and burning, or staking, beheading, and in general wasting the badass evil that was jonesin' to see him dead, he heard the sound of the front door close. Sam was home. He looked at his watch and noticed that it was almost five oclock.

"Dude, where the hell were you?" he called from his seat on the couch. But Sam didn't reply.

His intent gaze was plastered onto the text in front of him and he didn't look up when his brother shuffled through the room behind him.

"Hey bitch!" Dean called off-handedly. "I asked you a question. Where were you?"

"Hanging out with Andrea," Sam replied evasively, shuffling through the living room and making his way hurriedly to the kitchen.

Dean paused and looked up over his shoulder.

"You ok?" he asked, his eyes narrowing shrewdly. He rarely missed anything when it came to Sam, having watched over him like a hawk since the tender age of four, and he definitely didn't fail to notice the strange posture in his baby brother as he tried to sneak his way past on his way through the kitchen.

"Yeah, I've just got a headache," Sam called, making a beeline for his room off the other end of the kitchen.

"Hang on," Dean called, twisting his torso around to get a better look. "Come here for a minute."

"Dean, I'm tired," Sam shouted, tossing his bag on the floor and closing the door to his room.

Dean was up in a flash, taking swift, long strides through the living room and kitchen. He didn't knock when he got to Sam's room but merely opened the door. Sam was hiding something and he wanted to know what.

The sight that met his eyes froze him in his tracks.

Sam's right eye was swollen shut and bruising badly, and he had a red scrape along his cheekbone. His lip was split and puffed out, and his clothes were dirty, scuffed, and torn in places from where he had hit the ground. Dean could tell from his ragged breaths that it hurt to breathe, and without pretence or preamble he lifted his brother's shirt to take a look at his abdomen.

"Holy freakin' personal boundaries, Dean!" Sam snapped, hissing in pain with the effort it took to shout.

But Dean didn't care. He was already poking and prodding, extending Sam's arms and taking a quick inventory of his brother's injuries, cataloguing them behind steely eyes that were growing darker with each bruise and scrape. His lip curled up in a soundless kind of growl at the sight of the angry red scrape on Sam's elbows.

"What the hell happened?" he asked quietly. His calm was frightening.

"Dean," Sam protested. "It's nothing."

"What. Happened?"

Sam didn't reply. He didn't know how to reply. Dean's tightly bridled rage was scaring him.

"Dean, just forget about it, ok?" he pleaded.

And then Dean was on the move.

"Sonovabitch!" He roared, storming out of Sam's room and barrelling through the kitchen. "I'm gonna kill him! I will fucking kill him!"

"Dean no!" Sam shouted, noticing with rising panic that Dean was reaching for his coat. "Dean, stop! STOP!"

But Dean wasn't listening. His coat slid onto his shoulders and he grabbed his keys from the side table near the door.

"Bobby!" Sam shouted, hoping to enlist the help of their old friend.

"Bobby's not here," Dean said, seething with anger. "He went out to look for a book."

"Well you can't leave the house, Dean!" Sam cried. "You're grounded, remember?"

"Yeah, well, Dad'll understand," Dean said darkly.

"But he gave you an order!" Sam protested.

Dean paused before the door and scoffed.

"Since when do you give a crap about Dad's orders?" he asked.

"Since I don't want you to get expelled, you dope-head!"

"Sorry Sammy, but Todd Weston is a dead man." _End of discussion_.

"DEAN!" Sam hollered, lunging at his brother and gripping him around the waist as tightly as he could in what looked like a gangly-limbed hug. "I don't want you to do anything! Just sit down and calm down and… just wait, ok?"

Dean huffed in irritation and looked down at his little brother, whose face was scrunched up in pain somewhere below his armpit.

"Dude, what the hell are you doing?" Dean demanded. "Let go of me you little freak."

"I need you to help me with my injuries!" Sam cried.

"W-what?" Dean faltered.

_Jackpot_, Sam thought.

"Dean, this hurts a lot, and I need you to help me," Sam pleaded, letting go of Dean's waist and straightening up with a wheeze. "I think I might have bruised or broken a rib or something…"

Dean frowned, his rage still emanating from him in waves.

"I know what you're doin' here, man," Dean said. "But it won't work. Soon as I'm done helping you I'm gonna head straight out to whoop Todd Weston's ass. Big brother's got a score to settle."

"That's fine!" Sam conceded in a rush. Dad'll have called by then. "Just help me now, ok?"

Dean's frown increased and his eyes narrowed with suspicion. He knew that Sam was up to something but he couldn't imagine what. _He thinks he can talk me out of it_, Dean thought.

And then the telephone rang.

"Ok, hang on," Dean said, dropping his keys on the couch and jogging to the phone. "Hello?"

Then his face snapped toward Sam, the frown having transformed to a startled scowl.

"Dad…"


	8. Chapter 8

_Suck it up, John. You can do it. Don't think about the look on his face when you chew him out – that'll make you falter. Don't think about those eyes of his – Mary's eyes – you'll soften and fold like a cheap suit. Don't think about his faith in you, his devotion, his limitless trust. And for God's sake man, whatever you do, don't think about what you said to him the last time you spoke with him. Hard as rock, tough as nails. That's what you are._

"Dean," he said gruffly and without preamble when he heard his son's voice say 'hello' on the other end.

_"Dad…_" The change in the tone of Dean's voice from 'hello' to 'Dad' was staggering. Rage in the former doused to a timid, doubt-filled acknowledgement in the latter.

"You had better not be thinking of stepping one foot outside that door, son," John intoned. "I thought I made my instructions pretty clear regarding your grounding."

There was a long pause and John tried not to visualize what he knew must be going on in his eldest son's head right now. Dean would be furious and defeated all at once.

"Answer me when I speak to you son," John barked. _You're an asshole, shit father, you know that, John?_

_"Nossir. I was just…"_ Dean sounded like he was struggling to keep his emotions in check. _"I… wait a second. How in the hell did you know I was leaving?"_

That was a tone he'd never heard his eldest use with him before.

"You watch yourself, Dean," John warned.

A loud sigh of irritation and then a brief pause.

_"Sam called you."_ Dean's voice was flat.

"Yeah, he did," John replied. _Soften up a bit, you jackass. Dean's a good kid – the best kid, in fact – just give him an inch_. "Look Dean, I know you're pissed as hell, and you wanna go get some payback for what that fuckerhead did to your brother. But you can't."

_"They kicked the crap out of him, Dad!"_ His voice was a plea. _"If you could see him now, you'd be fighting me just to get the first swing in, I swear!"_

"I know, kiddo," John soothed. "And I know you just wanna look out for your brother, like you always do."

_"Damned straight!"_

"But you ain't leaving that house, and you sure as hell are gonna stay away from those football players. Do I make myself clear?"

_"But why?"_ John nearly broke at the bewildered tone of Dean's voice.

"Because it's too risky," John said. "You gettin' in a fight could bring the cops in, for starters. And you'll be guaranteed to be expelled."

Dean snorted a laugh through the phone.

_"So? You think I care about that?"_

"I care!" John said heatedly. "You _will_ graduate high school, Dean. I've been pretty lenient with you when it comes to school because I know it's not your thing, and that you'd rather be hunting with me. But at the very least, I expect you to graduate _on time_."

_"I don't need a freakin' diploma to be a hunter, Dad." _

"No, you don't," John conceded. "But your mother would roll in her grave if you dropped out. And no son of John and Mary Winchester is going to wind up a high school drop-out."

_There are special levels of Hell for dicks like you, John. Throwing Mary at him like that? Why not just carve his heart out with a plastic knife?_

There was dead silence on the other end. John felt cold creeping up through his intestines, knowing he had really pummelled his son with those few words. There was no backpedalling out of it, either. He'd have to barrel ahead.

"So no fighting with the football players," John said gruffly, clearing his throat in an attempt to banish the constriction there that was beginning to choke him. "That's an order."

"Yessir." If it was possible, Dean's voice sounded even more hollow than it had before.

"Good."

And with that John hung up, gasping for air through the tightness in his chest and the crushing invisible grip that was closing around his throat. He blinked away unshed tears and steeled himself to be strong. Dean would be fine. Dean was made of tougher metal than John could ever hope to be. Still, John was glad to be far away from Bobby Singer's place at that moment, knowing that those soulful green eyes would shatter him if he were faced with them now.

888

Dean tended to Sam's wounds in silence, his pale face a mask of cold detachment. Sam wanted to crawl in a hole and die for having been the cause of that look, for having sent their Dad after Dean like some kind of rabid pitbull. But he had had no other choice. Dean would have had the momentary satisfaction of beating the crap out of Todd Weston, and then would have had to deal with the consequences of it for a long time to come. Sam had the feeling that Todd was the kind of weasel who would charge Dean with assault even though he himself had gang beaten a kid four years younger than him. In fact, Sam was sure of it. The young man had clearly shown himself to be a spineless coward.

"Dean, I'm sorry," Sam pleaded quietly, hoping to draw his brother out of his silent ministering. "I know you hate me for calling Dad, but I didn't have a choice –"

"I don't hate you, Sam," Dean replied. But the coldness in his voice, and the steel in his gaze as he deliberately avoided meeting Sam's eye, was proof enough that he was, at the very least, beyond pissed.

"I don't want you to get involved!" Sam pressed. "I know you just wanna protect me, and if Todd Weston weren't such a rat-faced loser I'd be egging you on to kick the crap out of him. I would – you know I would! But I just know that the whole thing will only end up getting you in trouble. And I don't want you getting in trouble because of me."

Dean paused, giving his younger brother a deep, hard look.

"It's my job to keep _you_ out of trouble, Sam. Not the other way around."

"But Dean –"

"Enough!" Dean snapped, sighing heavily. "Look, I don't wanna fight with you, you gangly little freak. You're outta jail free this time because you just had the snot pounded out of you. Got me?"

Sam nodded, relief washing over him. It made him ache to think of his big brother being angry with him and feeling betrayed by him. Of all the people he'd ever met in his life, Dean was the one person who was always on his side.

"Kay, Dean."

"But just so you know, calling Dad was a real suck-ass thing to do."

Sam gulped.

"Yeah, I know," he admitted.

"Bitch." Dean said, smiling.

Sam couldn't help smiling back.

"Jerk."

They sat silently for a moment, allowing the tension to ease out of their backs and shoulders, until Dean finally sighed again and stood away.

"All right. Moment's past. Awkward now." He scooped up the remaining gauze, bandages and ointment into his palm and crossed the living room, heading toward the stairs. Sam watched him go, noticing that there seemed to be a heaviness about Dean that weighed upon him, like invisible hands were pushing down on his shoulders. Dean paused at the bottom of the stairs, laying a hand on the railing.

"And for the record, Sammy," he said. "There's nothing I wouldn't do to protect you. Trouble or no trouble. Nothing."

Sam felt a chill pass through him at his brother's words as he watched him climb the stairs. He knew, without a doubt, that his brother meant every word. And that thought scared him, a lot. He hoped he'd never have to see how far his brother would go to keep the promise he'd just made.

888

The rest of the week passed in relative normalcy, with Dean helping Bobby in the salvage yard during the day and both hunters researching the mysterious deaths in the evenings. Unfortunately, nothing was coming up on the hunt front. They simply didn't have enough information, and what they did have wasn't enough to help them pin down what kind of creature or entity they were dealing with. Bobby had at first thought that it was some kind of vengeful spirit, but he couldn't for the life of him explain the death echoes and the number warnings. _Seven_ meant absolutely nothing to either hunter, and the research was bringing up squat by way of explanation.

Bobby had secretly called John to warn him about the real threat that seemed to be facing Dean, but John had refused to get involved in his true, stubborn-ass fashion. He'd promised to do some research on his end, but had very snarkily pointed out that there were two adept hunters, as well as an insatiable researcher in the form of one Sam Winchester, present at Bobby's place with an almost unlimited library of supernatural lore at their disposal. He was sure that between the three of them they could get to the bottom of the killings and put a stop to them long before Dean was ever in any real danger. "Besides Bobby," he'd said, "I'm following the first lead on the thing that got Mary that I've had in months. It's tied up in something big – possibly end of the world big – and I gotta see this thing through."

And for that reason Bobby had decided not to let Dean know that he'd called their dad. There was no point in letting the young soldier know how much of a heartless bastard his father was – it was obvious he was desperate enough for the man's approval. Learning that John_ knew_ about the danger and had refused to come home to help eliminate it would be a crushing blow. So he kept that information to himself and silently hated his friend a little bit more for his treatment of his boys. After all, avenging the thing that killed Mary would be one hell of a hollow victory if his kids weren't even alive to celebrate with him. But that was John for you. Blind and stubborn as a mule.

For his part, Dean was very glad to see the week come to an end, feeling that his grounding had been something of a blessing in disguise in that it prevented him being able to go to the Halloween dance on Friday night. Tina had called on Thursday to try coaxing him into sneaking out to go to the dance, but Dean had adamantly refused, feigning reluctance and disappointment as best he could. Apparently she didn't hold a grudge for the way he'd so rudely stuffed her into her car and dismissed her from Bobby's property. "I blame it on your head injury," she'd teased. "Your one get-out-of-jail-free card."

By the time Sunday rolled around, Dean was ready to claw his own eyes out from the hours spent poring over books in fruitless research. They'd still not managed to find anything remotely promising, even with Sam's added help, and the whole thing was beginning to feel like a huge waste of time.

"Ok you know what? I give up!" Dean growled in exasperation, slamming shut the book he'd been reading and running his hands through his hair in frustration. "So far I've found sixty different creatures, demons, and monsters that in some way involve the number seven. There's a creature that steals people out of their beds every seventy-seven years… And here, a wraith that sacrifices seven virgins on the blood moon every turn of the century. And this one – my personal favourite – a kind of shapeshifter that can replicate itself seven times, so you have to keep killing it like a freakin' cat with its seven lives."

"Cats have nine lives," Sam corrected, peering up from his book.

"I know that asshat!" Dean spat. "I'm sayin' it's like a cat because it's got more than… Oh forget it. This is freakin' pointless Bobby! How the hell are we supposed to narrow this down?"

"You're raising your voice," Bobby replied, not bothering to look up.

"Sorry," Dean mumbled apologetically. "But seriously man, I don't know what the hell the number seven is supposed to mean. It could mean I got seven days – well, I _had_ seven days – now I'd only have two left – or it could mean that I'm the seventh victim…"

"Hey, maybe it was James's way of telling you to go buy a lotto ticket," Sam suggested with a grin. "You know, lucky sevens?"

"I like the way you think," Dean replied, his own face splitting into a wide smile. Dean was always one to appreciate the value of humour when he was stressed or anxious.

The truth was this whole business was really starting to freak Dean out. James's death had been so unexpected, and the death echo had unnerved the young hunter more than he wanted to admit. The fact that he might well have been banging the guy's little sister while said guy was in his death throes (Roy had said that James had gone missing on the Saturday night, hadn't he?) filled him with cold dread and just the slightest smidgeon of guilt.

Wow, Dean thought. Just over a week ago, he'd been sitting at the library researching floating sex dream women, thinking that he was being haunted by some kind of succubus, only to have that fear completely abandoned and replaced with this new death echo phenomena. Now that he thought about it, he hadn't had a single dream about the floating woman in over a week. Not since the night before the party. Not since he'd slept with Jessie and that other chick. Not since James disappeared.

These troubling thoughts swam through his head as he settled into a restless sleep that night, filled with tossing and turning, ghostly apparitions warning him about seven deadly sins and seven days and the seven of Hearts. None of it made sense, but the constant screaming of multiple voices, hoarse from torn vocal chords, was enough to make him break out into a cold sweat as he bolted upright in bed. He found himself wishing his dad were here – he'd know what to do. But his dad was working on a big case and needed to keep his attention focused there. Dean couldn't distract him with this now. He'd just have to handle it on his own.

888

It was strange returning to a school he'd barely attended, returning to friends he hadn't made and teachers he hadn't won over, after an entire week's absence. Sam was pleased as punch to be seated in the passenger's side of the Impala with his big brother – the dynamic duo together again at his favourite place in the world. God he was such a geek in his love of all things school. But in spite of his enthusiasm, the tension was also clearly evident.

"And you promise you won't get into it with Todd Weston or anyone else on the football team, right?" the shaggy-haired kid said when the rumbling of the metal car's engine stilled in the school parking lot.

"I already said I wouldn't," Dean replied tersely. "Now drop it, geekboy. But if anyone even thinks of layin' a hand on you again, all bets are off."

"Dean!"

"Can it, Grandma. Now get your ass to class and quit your whining. You're givin' me a headache with all your damned nagging."

Sam grinned and scampered away with his bookbag slung over his shoulder.

Dean made his way out of the car very reluctantly, listening to the groan of the car door as it creaked loudly shut and thinking that it was mimicking the sound of his own heart in anticipation of walking through those doors to the prison of school. He was determined he was going to stay out of trouble to prove to his dad that he could keep it together for Sammy's sake. And if that asshole Boomer gave him attitude, which he was sure he would at some point, he would just have to swallow it down like Alanis's jagged little pill. And no, he didn't like her music.

English class was his first class of the day. That would be his first test of strength. He'd have to see that smirking dick Todd Weston and not pound the crap out of him in front of all and sundry. Yes, it would be a test. He clenched his fists, massaging his fingers reflexively against his palms, to calm himself. Would not be beating up Todd Weston. Nope, definitely not.

He traversed through the crowded halls, found his locker and grabbed all the books he'd be needing for the morning, slinging them under his arm and shoving his coat inside. So far so good. In the three minutes he'd been in the building he hadn't been accosted by an ornery principal or taunted by any jocks who seriously needed to be reacquainted with the word bruise. A good start.

The tension in his shoulders kicked up a notch when he took his seat in English class. Todd Weston was wearing the smirk Dean knew he'd be wearing, watching him with narrowed eyes that were twinkling with savage delight. Dean averted his gaze and tried not to grind his teeth. That muscle twitch in his jaw was a dead give-away and he knew it; it was one of the biggest tells for Dean Winchester but was also the most reflexive. He did it without even knowing it.

"Morning everyone," Miss Miller called out as the last of the students found their seats and the room settled into relative quiet. "How was everyone's weekend? Mr. Winchester! Glad to see you're back. I hope you're feeling better."

Dean made a non-committal sound in the back of his throat.

"Well, we've finished with _Romeo and Juliet_ and are now ready to dive into _Jane Eyre_. Books out!"

Dean cursed inwardly as his fellow students reached inside their bags to draw out their respective copies of the book he'd forgotten to bring and hadn't bothered to start reading yet. _Crap, crap, and double crap_. For appearance's sake, he went through the motions of searching through his pile of books, pretending to be surprised and dismayed that _Jane Eyre_ wasn't among them. He looked up in time to see the teacher watching him with her head cocked to the side, a curious frown on her face.

"You forgot your book?" she queried.

"Yeah. Sorry."

"All right," she said, sighing. "Take mine. But only for today. Next time you forget your book you can make up for it in detention."

Dean plastered on his most polite smile, suspecting it came out more like a grimace, and promptly began rifling through the pages of the book the teacher had just plopped onto his desk. _So_ not a good sign. His spidey sense told him that his day was about to nosedive. It was inevitable. By the time the day was through he knew he was going to earn himself a detention. It was like it was his destiny.

But he made it through English class without incident. Miss Miller had pulled him aside at the end of class to warn him about goofing off, it being clearly obvious that he hadn't done any of the reading by his participation (or lack thereof) in the class discussion. 'You're a bright young man,' she'd said. 'And it's a waste of my time and of your potential when you don't put any effort in.' Great. Now she _cared_. Dean had feared this would happen.

That knot in his shoulders tightened further when he noticed the smell of her perfume as she attempted to motivate him with her little pep talk. She smelled so good it almost made his mouth water, which in itself would normally be a sickening thought because she was a teacher and that was just gross. But she was youngish for a teacher, and damn she had long legs, and her hair smelled so nice he had to resist the urge to touch it. _What the hell was the matter with him?_

Second period Biology passed uneventfully. Dean managed to float through, daydreaming about smashing Todd Weston's face in and imagining how the jock would probably scream like a girl if he ever saw even one of the supernatural beings Dean and his dad had hunted over the years. That would definitely wipe the smirk off his stupid face. By the time lunch rolled around he dared to hope that he might make it through the day without getting a detention after all.

888

"Hey Dean!" his little brother's voice called just over his shoulder. Dean turned in his seat at his table in the cafeteria and gave Sam a small grin.

"Hey, Sammy."

"It's Sam," he corrected, huffing in irritation but taking a seat across from his big brother nonetheless. "How'd your morning go?"

Dean smirked.

"I didn't get in any fights, if that's what you're hinting at," he said archly.

"Just checking."

"Dude, I can control myself you know. I'm not a freakin' cave man!"

"If the club fits," Sam taunted, taking a big bite of his sandwich. He paused in mid chew and made a face. "What the hell is this, Dean?" he asked through a mouthful of bread.

"It's an egg sandwhich."

"Then why does it taste like Ranch dressing?" he began spitting the bite out into a napkin.

"Sorry. Bobby ran out of mayo. I had to improvise." He took a hefty bite out of his own sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. "It doesn't taste so bad."

"Says the guy who likes beer, and puts anchovies on his pizza," Sam snarked, taking a large swig of juice to wash away the taste in his mouth.

"Whatever," Dean replied. "Next time you can make your own freakin' lunch."

Sam huffed and rifled through his lunch bag to see what other items were available for him to eat. He pulled out an apple and bit into it sulkily.

"What?"

"Nothin'," Sam lied. "It's just, I'm really hungry and this apple isn't going to be enough."

Dean rolled his eyes and slid his own lunch bag across the table.

"Take mine," he said, taking another bite from his sandwich. "Will two apples be enough, or do you need more? Of course you need more. You're a growing, bottomless pit. Hang on."

He stood up and fished through his pockets for change. Grinning when he found a five dollar bill and a few quarters, he made his way toward the lunch line.

Sam watched his brother leave and marvelled at the fact that Dean never thought twice about spending money on Sam, never hesitated in giving up his own cash if it meant Sam was fed, or clothed, or had money to do the things that normal kids did, like going to the movies or going to the arcade. And he never seemed to mind it, either. His generosity was unconscious, like it was ingrained, parental even.

"Hey Winchester."

Sam closed his eyes in dread, hoping he'd imagined the taunting call of Todd Weston but knowing that he hadn't. He felt a hand clamp onto his shoulder from behind.

"Where's your big brother, huh?"

Sam pried the jock's fingers off of him, giving his wrist a sharp twist that caused him to gasp in pain, and replied, "Go to hell!"

A few people had gathered around to watch the interplay, having heard through the school grapevine that Todd and his buddies had given the youngest Winchester a thorough pounding the week before. It was enough of a disruption to gain Dean's attention, who left the lunch line to check up on Sam only to discover the menacing jock attempting to discreetly manhandle him.

"You got exactly three seconds to get your fucking hands off my brother," Dean growled, storming through the crowd. "Touch him again, and I swear to _God_…"

Todd straightened up and smirked, holding his hands out in front of him in exaggerated surrender. Then, with deliberate movements for all the word to see, he proceeded to poke Sam roughly in the arm.

"I heard your dad's real strict," Todd said with an arched eyebrow. "I'm betting he told you not to fight me."

"One."

"But then, you probably wouldn't have the guts to fight me anyway. You've been hiding at home with an 'injury' for a whole week."

"Two."

"What's the matter?" Todd taunted. "Afraid to face off with someone who's actually got friends?"

"Three."

Todd reflexively took a step back away from Sam and it was Dean's turn to smirk.

"That's more like it," he said, his eyes narrowing dangerously in a steely green glare. "Come on, Sam."

Sam stood up from his seat and made to scurry to his brother's side, but Todd Weston grabbed him by the back of his shirt and yanked him back, causing him to lose his balance and sending him sprawling in an awkward heap on the floor.

Yep. It was Dean's destiny to be in detention.

He erupted like a volcano, vaulting over the table with lightening speed and pummelling the jock for all he was worth. He didn't need to rely on his combat training, he simply fuelled his rage and his fists became sledgehammers, built for pounding and flattening and crushing. With his own reputation on the line, Todd fought with equal vigour, his heavy fists crashing madly, his legs kicking out wildly, in an attempt to best his smaller opponent. They rolled and flailed, punched and kicked, snarling in rage and hatred, until Dean eventually got the upper hand and manoevered himself on top of his opponent, pinning him to the ground and pummelling him with a series of punches. For Dean, all pain was like an afterthought, flies tickling at the thick hide of a horse as it blinks them away.

He didn't hear Sam's pleas for him to stop, nor did he hear the teachers screaming at him to stop this instant. His ears were buzzing and all he could do was pound until the struggling form beneath him began to still. It took three people to pull him up and restrain him and by that time he was shouting madly, "I will fucking kill you!"

He knew he was in trouble then, because the entire cafeteria had fallen deathly silent, save for Dean's panted breaths and Todd's ragged gasps. There were at least five teachers surrounding him, and Principal Boomer was screaming something that Dean couldn't quite make out. He was too busy grinning from ear to ear at the sorry state of Todd Weston's face, for he definitely looked to be in as much pain or more than Sam had the week before.

"Are you listening to me, Mr. Winchester!" Boomer bellowed, his face red with shock and rage.

"Not really," Dean heard himself say. It was a struggle to scramble his way back from the adrenaline rush, back from the rage, so that he could focus on the here and now. The here and now looked ugly.

_Aw, crap!_

"My office! NOW!"

Dean wasn't sure he had ever seen an authority figure look so angry. Boomer was positively savage with anger, prowling down the hallway like a lion and pacing his office as he waited for Dean and Todd to follow him in. Todd was made to wait at the reception desk while Dean was ordered into the office.

"You are a disgrace!" Boomer raged, slamming the door to his office shut. "I have never seen such savagery in all my years of teaching!"

Dean stared angrily at the floor. This was it. He was going to be expelled. But he didn't care – it was worth it. He'd protected Sam. That was all that mattered.

_God, Dad's gonna kill me!_

"From the moment you walked through these doors you've been nothing but a menace!" Boomer continued, his face darkening from red to a dangerous shade of purple. "You've got all the makings of a career criminal with your violent outbursts, your lack of respect, and your terrible attitude!"

_Look at the floor. Look at the floor. Don't punch the principal and if you're lucky you'll _**only**_ be expelled. Maybe they won't call the cops. Aw, fuck_.

"I've seen your kind before," he went on. "Good-for-nothing punks riding a one-way train to jail!"

_Yup. Definitely calling the cops_.

"Do you even have anything to say for yourself?" He'd stopped pacing and was staring at Dean with angry, wide eyes.

Nope. He really didn't. If the man had half a brain and cared even a little bit about the kids in this school, he'd have noticed that a group of jocks had beaten the crap out of Sam the week before. But it was obvious this guy only saw what he wanted to see, and only paid attention to the things he wanted to keep an eye on. Nothing Dean said would make a difference, and he sure as hell wasn't about to beg to be listened to.

"Look at you!" Boomer spat, resuming his pacing as he stalked in a half-circle around Dean, watching him as a predator watches its prey before it pounces. "You're not even sorry! I can see it in your eyes. You think this is some kind of joke?"

"No sir, I don't," Dean said darkly, clenching his jaw and causing the tell-tale muscle twitches along his jaw line. "And if I had to do it again, I would."

"Well then, I guess the expulsion will be worth it!"

Dean raised his head and looked the large bald man in the eye, and thought he saw the man flinch. If he had to guess, Dean would say he was probably channelling his inner John Winchester, casting looks that could wither with smouldering eye beams.

"Yup," Dean said. "I did my job so I got no regrets."

"Your job?" Whatever Boomer had expected Dean to say to excuse or explain his behaviour, this wasn't it.

"That's right, _my job_. I looked after Sammy. And if you were even a little bit competent at doing _your job_, maybe my little brother wouldn't have gotten the crap kicked out of him by Todd Weston and half of the football team at lunch hour last week."

"What?"

Dean was still too furious to explain, and the stubborn Winchester in him didn't want to bother justifying himself for doing what he was supposed to do, what he'd been raised and trained to do. But it didn't matter because Boomer had stormed out of his office to yell at Todd Weston and to order the secretary to have someone fetch Sam Winchester. After a brief flurry of activity the truth was revealed, casting a very different light on the situation.

"Well then," the principal said at last, when everyone else had cleared out and it was just Dean and Todd with him in his office. "Here's what we're going to do. In-school suspension for both of you – for a month. You will serve detention every day after school and at lunch hour. And if, at the end of the month, you haven't broken any more rules or gotten into any more trouble, then neither of you will be expelled."

Dean decided, reluctantly, that he could live with that. Todd Weston, however, looked like he had swallowed a balloon that was blocking off his air supply.

"But… Principal Boomer… What about football?"

"Consider yourself suspended from the team," he replied darkly.

Dean grinned but then quickly masked it when the principal shot him a withering glare.

"Now get out of my sight, both of you," Boomer said with an angry sigh that came out more like a growl. "Your suspension begins now. Go see Mr. Booth."

And with that they were both dismissed. Dean wondered just how dead he would be when his father found out. But then, if things with the death echo thing went the way he feared they would, maybe it wouldn't matter.


End file.
